


Summer Heat

by sarahbeniel



Series: You Bring the Sun [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy Ending, Interruptions Galore, Mutual Pining, Texting, WinterShock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: Or, Five Times Bucky and Darcy were Interrupted, and the First Time They Finally Weren't.The Lemony Sequel to "Spring Training"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the rating! We are not in T territory anymore. Not all of the chapters are E (some barely make it to M), but I'm rating the whole thing E just to be safe.  
> 
> 
> Though this story is mostly just an excuse for sexual tension and yumminess, there is some unpleasant stuff at one point... I don't want to overtly warn for it, because it would be a minor plot spoiler, but if you have concerns you can always email me (address in my profile) and I will give you a heads-up. It's not non-con or self-harm, if that helps.  
> 
> 
> The story is a 5+1, from a plot standpoint, but there are more than 6 chapters because I'm so long-winded that some of them wound up being 10k words or more, so I split the really long ones up.  
> 
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  
> 

"Summer is for surrendering..."  
      -Debasish Mridha  
\-----------------------------------------

  


Darcy turned her back for a minute, so that Bucky could push the thin hospital sheet off, slide out of the bed, and find his pants in the pile of dirty clothes he’d thrown into the space at the bottom of the rolling bedside table. He wasn’t sure _why_ he’d had to undress just to be monitored for a concussion, but he’d learned that things generally went smoother in medical when he didn’t fight their stupid rules, which included not wearing your dirty mission pants in bed. 

Now he was getting sprung from prison by his girl— could he call her that? What the hell, he was gonna call her that, in his own head at least— and things were looking up. Including his body, apparently, after the heat of that kiss. 

Darcy was keeping an eye on the door, and as soon as he got himself adjusted and zipped up and pulled his base-layer shirt on, he simply picked up his vest and his boots without wasting the time to put them on, and joined her by the door. 

"All clear?” he asked, unable to fight the grin as she leaned her head out into the hallway and looked both ways. 

“Yup,” she said. “We’ve got a clear line of sight to the elevator, and nobody’s coming the other way. Let’s do it.” 

And then they were jogging, almost giggling ( _he— the Winter Soldier— giggling_ ) as they made a break for it, and he had a flash of a memory… running with Stevie, in much the same manner, scrambling as though the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels… they’d been maybe 8 or 9 years old, ditching Sunday Bible Study to go down to the river where all the bums hung out, and pick up their empty bottles for deposit, which Bucky had convinced Steve would teach them a lot more about God in one hour, and he could hear the voice of Sister Mary Frances as clear as day: “ _I_ **see** _you, Mr. Barnes_.” 

Only it wasn’t a memory, that voice— it was the nice nurse who’d been tasked to check his vitals every hour— and Darcy giggled again and said, “Oh shit,” and pulled him into the elevator, bouncing on her legs as she jabbed at the ‘Door Close’ button over and over, and he could see the nurse there in the distance, shaking her head at him until the doors finally closed and sealed them away from her disapproving glare. 

“Your place or mine?” she was asking, her finger hovering over the numbered buttons. “Probably mine,” she went on, without waiting for his answer. “They’ll be looking for you at yours.” Decided, she pressed the number for her floor, and with a little _clunk_ , the car began to move. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing— if they were just going to hang out, or if she was planning on fooling around, like she’d implied back in medical, but Bucky was up for whatever, even if those nerves were starting to creep back in, his heart pounding just from the feel of her little hand as she reached out to grab his. He let go of it for a second to adjust his hold on his vest, which he was cradling in his left arm while the metal hand held his boots, and when he reached out to take up her hand once again, it felt like there was a lot being said in that one little action— in both the offering and the receiving of it. As though they were both simultaneously asking, “ _Are you—? Do you— ?_ ” And without even knowing the full question, or where it was leading, the answer was still, “ _Yes_.” 

<<>>

Bucky could remember wanting sex. Could remember that feeling of nervous anticipation, that sense of _maybe tonight_. It was practically a part of his narrative, something the history books liked to talk about, as though he were not a real person who’d actually been alive back then, but more like a cartoon character— an archetype: the womanizing rake. He didn’t begrudge those who’d created the myth; it made sense to make him the foil to Captain America’s squeaky-clean righteousness, even if it wasn’t entirely true— for either of them. It did make it a little awkward now, though, when the standard assumption— through modern eyes— was that he’d had dozens, if not hundreds, of so-called notches in his belt. 

Hardly. 

Bucky had liked women— a lot— and they’d liked him back; that part was true. But people reading that stuff now didn’t understand how it was back then… that most of his legendary womanizing had been little more than stolen kisses in the dark, and occasional petting in the back of a theater, if the woman was game… 

The memories were hazy, but he could still recall the thrill of his hand on a shapely leg, traveling a little higher up beneath a skirt, feeling the rush of it if he made it past the top edge of a stocking, being allowed to touch that soft, smooth skin, to feel the effect it had on the girl he was kissing, her breath coming faster, until a hand on his or a whispered word would tell him he had to stop— for both their sakes, but mostly for hers… 

People now, they didn’t appreciate how, back then, a girl’s reputation could be ruined by letting you go too far, and that only some of the lower-class girls would go all the way, and only then because they were so hard up they didn’t have much left to lose, in terms of social standing. Those girls became known for it, and not in a wink-wink, _lucky you_ kinda way that guys with experience enjoyed, but in the sense that those girls were _bad_ — dirty— even _dangerous_ somehow, and it just got worse with the war, and all the fear of V.D. taking soldiers out of the action. A girl could even be arrested for that kinda behavior, as a danger to national security. The guys, of course, were seen as helpless victims, lured in by the devilish ways of these dangerous girls… 

It was all a load of shit. The girls who’d go all the way, they weren’t bad girls… they were just looking for something to feel, like everyone else. And the ones who wouldn’t— it wasn’t so much that they didn’t _want_ to, a lot of them; they just _couldn’t_ — not if they wanted any chance to settle down with a decent fella some day. 

The truth was, Bucky’d only gone all the way with a girl a few times— the last time being in that other lifetime, a few weeks before he fell, when the Howlies had come across a mobile hospital behind the front. The rules had been different out there than they were back home— nobody knew what was going to happen or if you’d even be going home in one piece… or even make it through the next day. The nurses had been nice— patching them up and sharing news and stories, flirting a little— and eventually, he’d slipped away with a sweet little brunette who’d made it clear she wanted to be _extra_ nice… 

He’d spent maybe fifteen minutes alone with that nurse, whose name he couldn’t even remember now, but the memory of her— so soft and tender and making him feel, just for that short time, like he was little bit safe, like there was a chance it could all be okay— had kept him warm for a just a little while longer after he was taken… remembering there were still some good things in the world, things worth fighting for, when everything else was starting to go cold— even his will to live. 

Nobody here, in the future, knew the truth of things— his relative inexperience compared to modern guys his age— except maybe Steve, who’d lived through it too, understood how it’d been. And Steve— he had his own set of stupid assumptions to deal with. The cracks about his being a virgin had been jokes at first— just typical hazing among soldiers, teasing about his straight-laced public persona— but when no evidence to the contrary surfaced to quiet them, the growing belief that it was actually true became part of the general lore, just as deeply-held and ludicrous as the assumption that Bucky’d been some kind of Lothario, and that now he was hard up, missing out on the line of women he was accustomed to. 

When neither he nor Steve showed much interest in dating, they’d eventually been given up as a lost cause— boring old grumpy grandpas— and the other guys stopped ribbing them for the most part, with the exception of Wilson, who seemingly never tired of a good old-fashioned ribbing, which was fine. Unlike most people, Wilson knew when to push and when to lay off. 

Nobody else seemed to get it— or maybe they just didn’t want to— the myth of Bucky’s happy-go-lucky days of womanizing far more palatable than the truth of his captivity, his loss of autonomy for all those years, and the toll that’d taken on him. He’d barely considered his body his own when he’d first escaped, let alone a person with any kind of potential sexuality. It’d been a lot of work— and a lot of therapy— to get to a place where he’d reclaimed both, but he hadn’t yet acted on it. And now that he was thinking about it— had found himself unable to resist the pull of this girl, both mentally and physically— he was afraid he was going to make a complete fool of himself. 

But maybe it was time. Maybe she was the right person to risk it with, to let himself be the fool, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Maybe it’d be the opposite. Certainly felt that way so far. 

Not like it was any kind of logical choice he was making— Darcy had hit him like a bolt of lightning, making him feel like he was powerless against it— like he was seventeen again, if he ignored the creaking in his bones and the huge paperweight attached to his shoulder. For the first time in decades, he was on a mission that had nothing to do with killing, and everything to do with big blue eyes, a sassy little mouth that spat out curse words through red-painted lips, and a bewitching sway of hips that had him mesmerized every time he laid eyes on them… and then when she’d texted that she _missed_ him… well, that was it. 

<<>>

She was tugging him by the hand down the hallway to her assigned one-bedroom in the compound, and he was reliving those kisses they’d already shared there by her door, as she fumbled with the electronic lock. He was trying to come up with something to say, something smooth for when he got inside, but he never got the chance— as soon as she’d pulled him in and re-engaged the lock, she’d shoved him up against the door like some kind of animal, hungry for him, forcing him to drop his gear in surprise, putting his hands on her hips… 

She was pulling his face down into hers as she strained up on her tippy toes to reach him, and something broke in him finally, some pent-up tension from all those nights he’d been away, thinking about her, dreaming about seeing her again, being allowed to touch her, to kiss her again, and he picked her up, spun them around so that she was the one against the door, bracing her there as he supported her weight, and he felt her legs wrapping around him, and as she mashed her lips into him, her breath coming just as heavy as his, one of her little hands snaked down between them to cup him, right in the front of his tac pants, making him gasp, and as she pulled her lips away with a _smack_ , she moved to whisper in his ear, her lips brushing the shell of it, “Is that for me?” 

It was the first welcome hand on his dick, other than his own, in who knew how many years… _decades_ … and even through the thick, dirty fabric of his work pants, it felt so good that he was afraid he was gonna blow it right then. 

He couldn’t even speak— couldn’t form a coherent answer to her question— just exhaled sharply, his face buried in her neck as she felt him, running her hand up and down his pants slowly, and he was gonna lose it… 

“Bedroom?” she said then, still almost a whisper, and he was pretty sure he nodded, and then he was carrying her, but he didn’t know where he was going, even in the tiny apartment, and she had to direct him like he was a drunken half-wit, pointing the way, and he finally made it to her room, tumbled them down onto the bed and he was crawling over her to kiss her again, and she was pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off, and he sat up, let her do it, and then everything slowed down a little, as the air hit his skin and he became aware that she was seeing all of it for the first time— all of the arm, and those damn ugly scars, and for a second he felt horribly self-conscious, while her hand reached out but stopped just short, her eyes seeking his… 

It wasn’t like she was the first person— woman even— to see him with his shirt off since he’d come back; most of the strike team had seen it all at some point, when they’d had to suit up in the air. But they all had a way of looking at him— or rather, _not_ looking— like they all shared an unspoken understanding of how awful it was… nothing personal, just a neutral kind of averting of their eyes, to avoid shaming him… 

This was different. Darcy was the first person where it actually mattered… where he felt like… he wanted her to _like_ what she saw, and the idea of that… _God_ , it was just so fuckin’ stupid to even think about it— 

"Is it okay if I touch it?” Her words, careful, broke through his spiral of negative thoughts, as her hand hovered there, waiting for his reply. 

He didn’t know if she meant the arm, or the scar, or what, but he was okay with her touching any part of him, any way she wanted to, even if he didn’t understand it. 

“Yeah,” he said, keeping it simple. “You can touch me.” And he dropped his gaze a little, so he could follow the movement, watching her hand as it closed the last few inches to the edge of the scar where his skin met metal. When it made contact, he moved his eyes back to her face, watching for her reaction— needing to read it— but all he saw written there was a strange kind of awe as she felt her way down the rough edge and then back up and over to the bulge of the silver deltoid, slowly running her hand down the entire length of his arm, ending at his fingertips, and he tried not to shiver from it, the feel of her, such a gorgeous thing, touching him like that. 

“God,” she said, breathing out heavily, as though she’d been holding it in. “You’re so sexy, it almost hurts.” 

And then she yawned, a really huge one, and it was so completely indelicate, and so utterly mood-killing, that he couldn’t help laughing. 

“I can see that,” he said, trying to keep a straight face as she erupted into her own embarrassed laughter. “Excitin’ you so much, you’re about to pass out,” he joked. 

“Hey— do _not_ ,” she said emphatically, once she’d regained her composure, “take any of this—” She stopped, indicating the general area of her tired face, “…to be a sign of my enthusiasm or lack thereof. I just didn’t get much sleep the past couple days, and it’s finally catching up to me in a big way.” And then she did it again, another huge yawn, her eyes watering from it, and this time she turned away a little, trying to hide it. 

“Boss been keepin’ you up late?” he said, and he reclined on her bed a little, and she did the same, the frantic heat from before all but gone, but that was okay— he felt good, being here with her, in whatever capacity. He reached forward to twirl a lock of her hair in his metal finger, and she grinned, and almost seemed to lean into it, making him smile back and bite his lower lip. 

“No,” she said, her hand reaching up to absently feel the metal segments of his fingers. “It’s because your fucking friend— Captain Dumbass— didn’t tell me until _today_ , when I literally ran into him in the hallway, what happened with your phone,” she said. “I’ve been, like, frantic with worry over you. I literally could _not sleep_.” 

Her eyes darted up to the little worried dent that’d formed between his eyebrows and she moved in closer, brought a finger up to it. “Nuh-uh,” she said as she touched it, trying to smooth it out. “None of that. It’s not your fault. Steve’s the one who dropped the fucking ball.” 

Then she smiled in a sleepy way and moved the finger down to the other dent on his face, in his chin, rubbing at the scruff growing in it, and said, “I like this one, though. We’re keeping it.” And she leaned in, removing her finger so that she could kiss him there, and there was something oddly intimate about it, like it was something you wouldn’t do at the beginning of a relationship, but rather later on… something at once affectionate and possessive, like that part of him _belonged_ to her now, and it made his eyes fall shut as his heart picked up, just feeling the nearness of her… 

Her hand had drifted down to the center of his chest, resting against the light patch of dark hair he had there, and suddenly there was a weight to all of it— not a bad one, but somehow it wasn’t just light and flirty anymore, and for a few fleeting seconds he had no idea what he was doing, how he’d gotten there… lying on this girl’s bed with his shirt off, letting her look at him, touch him, and really, they barely knew each other, and he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted from him, other than a quick tumble in her bed, which he wasn’t opposed to in theory, but… 

“Still, m’sorry you were worried,” he finally said, and then she was moving in even closer to him, her hand running down his chest, and she was leaning in to kiss him again, when another yawn attacked her, and she turned her head to the side again, hiding the yawn in her shoulder. 

“Jesus Christ,” she said when she was done, by way of apology, clearly frustrated with herself. “This is so totally _not_ how I was expecting this to go. God, talk about un-sexy…” 

He sat up again then and took a chance, wanting to reassure her— pulled her into his lap, one leg at a time, letting her wrap around him, and they were face-to-face, and he could feel her crotch, warm against the hard-on that still had to be obvious, even in the thick tac pants, and why the hell was he wearing those in her bed— they were fucking filthy— but she didn’t seem to care, moving her body against him, just a little, just a tease of a pulse against him. 

It was a tiny movement that her hips had made, but it felt like everything, telling him _yes_ , and he looked into her eyes as his flesh finger traced down from the dent between her collarbones to where the top button of her cute little vintage-print blouse was waiting for him, and he wondered what would happen if he undid it. Just one little button at the top of the line. 

“How were you expectin’ it to go,” he said, his voice low, and their mouths were so close, but it was like they both knew how to make it better and worse— better _because_ it was worse— by keeping that inch of air between them as the rest of their bodies got closer, holding off on another kiss, letting the tension build… 

“Well for one thing,” she said, and he could feel her breath on his lips, “I was thinking we’d both be a lot more undressed by now.” 

“You know… we don’t gotta rush into nothin’,” he said, but even as he was saying it, he undid that top button, let the fabric pop open where it’d been straining to stay shut, to cover up those gorgeous curves, and he was tracing a little circle on the inch of newly-revealed, creamy soft flesh, and he was thinking about undoing another… “I mean, I’m not expecting...” 

“And if I wanna rush?” she said, her voice dropping a little as she looked up at him, catching the corner of her lip under her front teeth, and he wanted to take that plump red flesh in his mouth, roll it around, taste its sweetness with his tongue... 

“I’m game for anything you are, sweetheart,” he said, and then he did lean in and take that lip, and she moaned a little in his mouth as he pulled on it, taking his time, but then he broke away and said, “You sure you don’t…” He interrupted himself, needing to kiss her again already, and then pulled back and finished his question, teasing her— “need a nap?” 

She was practically speaking into his mouth; he could feel the words as much as hear them: “You kidding me?” Then she pulled away a bit, leaning back to gesture dramatically down the length of his bare torso. “And waste all of this? There’ll be time for napping... after.” 

And his heart picked up again at that carefully chosen word, thinking, _Jesus, this is really gonna happen. Like, right now_ … and he wanted it, really fuckin’ badly, but he was getting nervous again, about needing to satisfy her, make it good for her, and there was still that part of him that was thinking _what is she even doing with a fuck-up like me? She’s gonna regret it, after… she’s gonna want to take it back_ … 

And then he thought… _maybe she just wants me to... give her what she needs, and then to skedaddle so she can sleep_ , and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that; not that it was the worst job a fella could be asked to do, but… 

God, he just couldn’t read this, and he knew he’d been better at this before, about knowing what a woman wanted, how far to take something, even how to make a girl happy by what he _didn’t_ do, by showing her that she didn’t need to fend him off if she just wanted to neck a little and enjoy some company, and that it wasn’t gonna be a let-down for him… but this— this he couldn’t read. 

Even though they’d barely had a chance to get started on whatever this was, he’d still thought they had something more than… what did Wilson call it? A booty-call? Was that what this was? And maybe he’d mis-read the entire thing, right from the start, and it’d all been leading to this, like something she needed to get out of her system, and _what the fuck_ , what was he even thinking about, he had this gorgeous girl in his fucking lap, for Christ’s sake, and she was practically rutting herself onto him already, and he was worried about how to _read the situation?_

_The situation’s pretty fuckin’ clear, pal_. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said, and he almost laughed again. He hadn’t heard anyone say that since 1944... 

“Yeah,” he said. “I, uh... I gotta take a leak. Where’s your...” 

“Oh,” she said, and she slid backward, out of his lap. “It’s, uh... back out there and to the right.” 

He got up and was heading out when she said “Hey,” and he turned to look back at her, where she was reclined again now, in her rumpled-up bed, and she looked like a fucking goddess, and he was a goddamn fool, running away to the bathroom like some nervous little kid. 

“Pants are optional,” she said. “When you return. Just FYI...” 

He snickered in response, to let her know that he’d heard her, but if anything her words just made him more nervous. It was obvious she wanted him, so what was his fucking problem? 

He spent a little too much time in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror, and he splashed some cold water on his face, trying to shock some clarity into his muddy brain. What did she really want? Was she interested in him as more than a quick fuck, or was this gonna be it? One afternoon in her bed and then back to how it was before? If that was all it was gonna be, would he be an idiot for walking away? 

Or maybe she wanted one of those ‘friends-with-benefits’ things he’d heard people talking about. Not that he’d be totally against a setup like that, with the right person, but he thought about it as his eyes roved over the array of products lined up on her vanity— little bottles and spritzers and jars of things that, along with her natural scent, must add up to that delicious smell that had enveloped him the first time they’d kissed, and was all around him again… something sweet and spicy, just like her, and it was like he was a bee and she was soaking him with it, with that thing that was drawing him to her— and he realized all in a rush that he wanted it to be more. He wanted to get to know her better, find out what was really going on inside, under those flirty smiles and easy laughs. Not that that still couldn’t happen, even if he went back in there and gave her what she clearly wanted, and what his own body was telling him to _go for_ , for God’s sake. 

He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face again. _What do you know for sure_ , he asked himself. Something his therapist might say. No guess-work, no assumptions. It wasn’t a long list. _I know I like her. I know I want her to touch me more, and I wanna touch her. Wanna kiss her and hold her and talk to her and be in her company more, if she wants it_. 

Well, that was enough for now. Enough to go back in there and kiss and hold her and see where it went, see where she wanted to take it. To feel those curves through her clothes, and maybe out of them too, if he could figure out where to begin. 

He left the bathroom and quietly made his way back to the little bedroom, and he stopped there in the doorway— couldn’t help smiling when he saw her there, curled up in a little ball on her bed, half-hugging a pillow, mouth open, eyes shut, and very obviously… sound asleep. 

He wanted to climb in there with her, just spoon up behind her and pull her into the warmth of his arms and sleep for a while, to savor that feeling of holding onto another human body— _her_ body— and he was just working the button on his pants again to shuck them off when his loaner phone beeped loudly from its place in the cargo pocket on his thigh, signaling an incoming text. 

He quickly pulled it out and muted it, so it wouldn’t wake her if it went off again— she was still breathing heavily, unperturbed— and then he made the mistake of checking the text.

  


_Steve: Hey where’d you go_

_Nurse said you snuck out with a girl_

_I’m guessing that means Darcy_

  


He sighed and quickly thumbed out a response:

  


_Bucky: Yeah_

_What’s up_

 

_Steve: Look I’m really sorry but if_  
_you’re all done in medical you still_  
_need to debrief and fill out an_  
_incident report_

 

_Bucky: You gotta be fuckin kiddin me_

 

_Steve: Really sorry but you know it’ll be_  
_my ass and yours if you don’t_

_We’re already in the shit house from_  
         _that broken window last week_

 

_Bucky: Jesus was that just last week?_

 

_Steve: Where are you, anyway?_

         _You with her?_

 

_Bucky: Yeah_

          _But she’s sleepin_

          _It’s okay_

          _Be there in ten_

  


<<>>

When Darcy woke up several hours later, the first thing she noticed was that she was conspicuously alone in the bed. No deliciously shirtless man. No sleepy, sexy-ass super soldier. No Bucky. 

“ _Noooooooooo_ ,” she groaned as she fell backward onto the mattress. “Fucking fuck shit fuckity _fuck_. Why the _fuck_ did you have to fall asleep?” 

The second thing she noticed, when she sat up again, looking around the room for proof that he’d even been there for real— that she hadn’t just dreamed his gorgeous shirtless self in some kind of sleep-deprived delirium— was a small, square piece of paper dangling from something in the middle of her doorway. 

She pushed out of bed to take a closer look: someone had attached a little note to the top of the doorframe with a 2-foot-long piece of Scotch tape, so that there would be no way she could miss it upon leaving the bedroom. 

For some reason, the idea that he’d gone into her desk drawer, to find the tape— of all things, that gave her the weirdest little butterflies. It also gave her butterflies that he’d left her a fucking hand-written note, conspicuously, when he could have just texted, like a normal person. Maybe he didn’t have her number programmed into his loaner phone. But she liked to think maybe he did it this way because he _wanted_ to. Because he was old-fashioned and sweet and because real things you can touch have impact. 

His handwriting looked funny in purple glitter ink— the pen she’d had out on her desk— but she could tell he’d taken his time, making sure it was legible: 

_Hey sweetheart— Sorry had to leave, Steve called me in for debrief._  
_Wish I coulda stayed and wrapped myself around you._  
_Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow if you want._  
_I gotta teach a class until 4:30 but maybe we can meet for dinner?_  


He hadn’t signed it, but that was okay. She carefully untaped it, resisted the teenage girl in her who wanted to do something ridiculous like clutch it to her chest and go, _squeee!_ , opting instead to stick it in the drawer of her bedside table, where she kept other important things like extra phone chargers and lube. 

<<>>

She was definitely _not_ counting the hours until 4:30 the next day, so she was really surprised when Bucky appeared in the doorway to the labs some time after lunch, looking hesitant until he saw her there at her desk, where she was making an intricate sculpture out of paper clips and rubber bands. He was wearing his full tac gear, and looked like he was in a hurry. She stood up as soon as she saw him, and he came right over, ignoring the curious looks the nosy little lab techs were giving them. 

“Hey, sweetheart. There somewhere we can talk for a minute? In private?” 

“Yeah, sure,” she said. She grabbed his hand and tugged him past even more nosy, staring lab workers, to the back exit that led to the hallway that nobody ever used except in evac situations, and when the door banged shut behind him and they were alone, she said, “What’s going on? You look nervous.” 

“Nah,” he said. “Just pissed off. You ain’t gonna fuckin’ believe it, but I gotta go away again.” 

“Right now?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer, by the way he was dressed and the way he was acting. 

“Yeah,” he said. “M’actually already late, but Steve said he’d buy me an extra couple minutes so’s I could come say goodbye to you.” 

“Oh,” she said. Something about the way he’d said it made it sound like he could be gone a while, and her stomach flipped. “How— do you know how long this time?” 

They were still holding hands, and he looked down at where their fingers were laced together and then back to her face. “Won’t know ’til I get there, suss out the situation. But if I’m a good fit for the job, could be… eight weeks. Give or take.” 

“Eight _weeks?_ ” She let go of his hand so that she could lean back against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor, feeling like someone had just punched her in the gut. She wanted to protest. To complain. To say, ‘But— but— we just got _started_ , it’s not _fair_ …’ 

It was like he’d heard it all, telepathically or something, because he moved in close to her, putting his big hands on her waist, and said, “I know, sweetheart.” And then he was lifting her up to hold her, saying “C’mere,” his strong arms enfolding her, feeling so good, like that was where she was meant to be, and she wrapped her legs around him to hold on, and she was kissing him, pushing his hair back from his face to see him better, and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the effect she had on him, and it was almost making it worse, because she needed him to _stay_ , needed to touch him more, talk to him, just fucking _be in his presence_ for more than one fucking hour at a time. It was like she’d been given a teaser dose of an awesome new drug and then had it snatched away, to be controlled and doled out in increments just small enough and far enough apart to have her climbing the walls… 

He’d pulled away with a sigh and when she pressed her forehead against his, he said, without looking at her, “I just need to know— do you… is this… I mean—” 

“Bucky…” There was nothing else for her to say to his fumbled questioning. Except, “Come home safe to me. Okay?” 

He breathed out then, and swallowed and said, “Okay.” 

“You got my number? You get a new phone?” 

“Yeah. Already put it in. M’not really supposed to text out for personal stuff when I’m workin’, but I’ll figure it out.” 

There was a pause, a silence, just holding on to each other, their foreheads still touching, neither one of them wanting to let go, and finally he pulled back and said, “Gimme one more kiss, for the road. Make it a good one, so’s I have somethin’ good to think on with when I’m sittin’ next to Steve on the plane.” 

She laughed a little, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her face; the memory of that— how beautiful she looked when she laughed— was gonna be almost as good as the kiss. 

And she did, then— gave him a kiss worthy of remembrance, full of feeling and promise and just enough heat to make his pants too tight, and he said as much, chuckling, as he set her down on the floor again. 

“There’s a secret exit at the end of the hallway, if you wanna avoid walking back past all the science nerds with a full salute,” she said helpfully, and he laughed, and then he kissed her again. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” he said. 

And she said the same, and then he ran a hand through her hair, just a light little touch, looking at her like he wanted to memorize the picture, and then he held the back of her head as he kissed her forehead, his lips just resting there for a few seconds, and then he turned and walked away, down the long hallway in his sexy full-body blacks, and he didn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the chapters that got reeeeeally long, so I split it in two. This means that the 2nd of the 5 "interruptions" (for the 5+1) won't actually happen until Ch. 3...  
> \--------

“How do you do it?” asked Darcy. 

“Do what?” said Jane, without looking up from her work. 

She got no reply, and after a few seconds, she sighed and placed the pad of her index finger down on the page to save her place, covering up the number she’d been trying to make sense of, and then looked over to where her friend and currently-useless-assistant was moping at her desk. 

Darcy was slumped forward in her chair, mercilessly stabbing a helpless white rubber eraser with a sharpened pencil, over and over. The eraser was covered with dozens of dark grey puncture marks— evidence of the assault. 

It was after 11pm, they were the only people left in the labs, and Jane was on about her last nerve with all of the bored (and very distracting) fidgeting going on at the other woman’s workspace— she felt like she’d been tasked with babysitting a teenager. 

“Do what?” she repeated, trying not to sound as irritated as she felt. 

Darcy threw down the pencil like it’d personally offended her. “Go for entire months without even knowing where Thor is, or what he’s doing,” she said, and then she finally let out the flood of frustration that’d fueled her attack on the eraser. 

“It’s only been eight _days_ for me, and I’m already acting like a complete asshole, like I have no life of my own outside of mooning over my maybe-boyfriend. This is totally unlike me. Is this just one of those _I-want-what-I-can’t-have_ kinds of things?” 

“I dunno, is it?” asked Jane, and she knew she sounded crabby, but she couldn’t make the effort to pretend otherwise. She was hungry and tired, had a lot of data to go through, and she was no good at playing therapist. She also knew that nothing she said was going to help with the way Darcy was feeling at the moment; she’d been through it too many times herself— knew that you just had to suck it up, focus on your own stuff. She should send Darcy down to the big break room— the one the Avengers used— to steal more of their Pop Tarts. Give her something to do. 

“And what do you mean, ‘ _maybe_ -boyfriend’?” she said instead, because that part of it was becoming irritating too— the way Darcy’d been pretending like she and Barnes weren’t even any kind of thing, when obviously they were. If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be acting like this. 

“The interns were all gossiping about it for days,” she said. “About how the _Winter Soldier_ came stomping in here all murdery and then you grabbed his hand and led him away to make out or something, like it was the crisis part of some kind of epic fairy tale. Dave was _swooning_.” 

Darcy just heaved a huge sigh at that. 

“Well, is he or isn’t he?” pressed Jane. “Your boyfriend.” After a moment she added, “You’re sure acting like he is,” and the way she said it, it wasn’t really a compliment. 

“I mean, I _guess_ so?” said Darcy, and she broke the rubber eraser in half, finally putting it out of its misery, and then threw the pieces into the trash. “It’s not like we’ve exchanged greeting cards to commemorate the situation or anything.” 

“If a guy comes to say goodbye to you before he goes off on a mission, and there’s even kissing involved—” Jane rolled her eyes when Darcy actually looked up at that, and she elaborated: “As if you could come back to your desk with googly-eyes and beard-burn, and think Dave wasn't gonna notice...”

Darcy scowled and muttered something about Dave needing to mind his own beeswax, while Jane finished up her thought: “If you've got all of that going on, added to the stupid-level sulk you've been serving up, I think it’s pretty safe to say that he’s your boyfriend. I don't know why you're being so stubborn about it. Nobody's going to judge you for having an actual relationship for once, you know.” 

Darcy slumped further in her chair, refusing to either confirm or deny, making Jane roll her eyes again. 

“Anyway, to get back to your original question— the whole ‘ _how do I do it_ ’ thing— the answer is the same as for everything else that doesn’t come easy in life: _practice_. You can’t tell me you don’t remember how awful I was at first, when Thor would vanish for months and I literally didn’t even know if he was _planning_ to come back…” 

Darcy was about to complain that she hadn’t wanted real, practical advice, when her phone chirped— some new, unknown number— and she picked it up, scanned the message and then scrambled to her feet, almost knocking her task chair over in her hurry to escape the room as she babbled out, almost incoherently, “Oh my God, it’s him— I gotta go— thanks Janey— talk to you later…” 

Jane just said, “Yeah, yeah,” as she rolled her eyes again. She looked back down to her page, carefully removed her fingertip from the column of numbers she was studying, and returned to the relative comfort and logic of quantitative data. 

<<>>

  


_Bucky:  Hey doll_

            _What you doin_

 

_Darcy:  Holy shit, dude_

            _How’s everything going?_

            _Are u okay?_

            _Did u find out yet if u have to stay?_

            _Is it ok if I text u at will now, or_  
            _do I need to keep it on the DL?_

  


Bucky smiled and bit into a crisp red apple as the texts came in rapid-fire, another chime every few seconds. His girl could text fast. He set the apple down on the bedside table so he could write back. He’d gotten a lot better at texting over the past year, but he wasn’t as fast as Darcy, and he couldn’t use his metal hand to do it. He'd had to pre-program in a lot of frequently-used words, to save time.

  


_Bucky:  Sorry it took so long to write_

            _Had to wait til I was alone_

            _And yeah. Gonna be here a while_

 

_Darcy:  So are we talking a few weeks?_

 

_Bucky:  Sorry, doll_

            _Looks like I’m here for the long haul_

            _Won’t be back til middle of June,_  
             _probably_

 

_Darcy:  Fuck_

 

_Bucky:  Yeah well_

            _It’s the job_

 

_Darcy:  I know_

 

...

 

_Bucky:  You ok?_

 

_Darcy:  Yeah_

            _Just bummed_

 

_Bucky:  Me too, sweetheart_

            _Miss you like crazy_

__

 

_Darcy:  So can I text u now?_

 

 _Bucky:  You can but it’ll just bounce off_  
             _unless I got the channel open_

            _Doin somethin on my end to mask_  
             _communications_

            _Don’t want anyone tracin anything_  
             _back to you_

 

_Darcy:  U sure it’s ok?_

            _Don’t wanna get u in trouble_

 

_Bucky:  It’s fine_

            _It’s SOP but I gotta limit it_

            _Just don’t want you thinkin I don’t_  
            _wanna talk to you_

            _I’d be talkin to you every day if I_  
            _could_

 

_Darcy:  So what are u doing right now?_

            _I mean if u can say_

 

_Bucky:  Eatin an apple_

            _Lyin in bed_

            _Cheap hotel_

            _What are you doin_

 

_Darcy:  Absolutely nothing_

            _Not a fucking thing_

            _Just sitting around like a total_  
            _loser, mooning over my absentee_  
            _boyfriend_

 

He laughed as he read it, but his chest tightened a little too, to know she was thinking of him that way, in those specific terms— it was good to have that confirmation. Maybe now he would quit fucking himself up with all the stupid _what ifs_ in his head. A part of him had been surprised she’d even answered his text.

 

_Darcy:  U ok?_

            _I didn’t scare u with the B word_  
            _did I_

 

_Bucky:  What’s the opposite of scared_

 

_Darcy:  I don’t know_

            _Horny? lol_

 

_Bucky:  Well, that too_

            _Keep sayin’ it though, if you want_

            _I like it_

 

_Darcy:  What being horny? lol_

 

_Bucky:  Bein your guy_

 

Darcy paused then, unprepared for the flutter of warmth that pulled at her belly at his words, and she didn’t really know what to say after that.

 

_Bucky:  Seriously though what you been up to_

            _Gotta be better than what I been doin_

 

 _Darcy:  I am 100% not shitting u when I said_  
            _I’ve just been moping around_

            _Well I did a little online bra_  
            _shopping too but I don’t think that_  
            _makes me any less of a loser_

 

_Bucky:  I’d say that depends on the bra_

 

_Darcy:  Oho…_

            _Is that a challenge?_

            _Maybe I’ll have to model them for u_  
            _when they get here_

            _Send u some shmexy pix_

            _Is it okay to send pix?_

 

 _Bucky:  Only if you wanna kill me long_  
            _distance_

 

_Darcy:  Mwa ha ha…_

 

Bucky was smiling as he read it, and then he glanced at the time and sighed.

 

_Bucky:  K doll_

            _Gotta go do some work_

            _I’ll text you later, promise_

 

_Darcy:  K_

 

She felt like she should say ‘ _Love you_ ,’ or something, even though they so totally weren’t there yet, but not saying _anything_ as a sweet sign-off just seemed wrong after missing him so badly. In the end she just wound up typing ‘ _cya_ ’ followed by a smooch-face emoji. It wasn’t adequate to convey how she was really feeling, but it’d have to do.

 

_Bucky:  Talk later_

            _And stop moping around_

            _No wait_

            _If you stop moping around does that_  
            _mean you’re gonna stop thinking_  
            _about me_

 

_Darcy:  Doubt it_

            _I have a feeling ur gonna be the star_  
            _of my thoughts no matter what I’m_  
            _up to_

 

_Bucky:  You’re makin me blush_

 

_Darcy:  Really?_

            _You?_

 

 _Bucky:  If blush is another way to say_  
            _pitchin a tent_

 

_Darcy:  I’m liking that image_

            _You should see the smile on my face_

           _Wish I was there to help u with that,_  
            _soldier_

 

_Bucky:  God, me too_

            _Fuck_

            _Gotta go_

 

_Darcy:  Ok_

            _Be safe_

 

Again: the urge. ‘ _Love you_.’ On impulse, she pulled up the emoji keyboard and selected the single red heart, and left that instead. It felt right.

<<>>

The next day, she didn’t get any words from him, but he did send her a picture. The main feature of it was a one-story, L-shaped orange-red brick building with pitched roofs, and large numbers reading ‘1909’ bricked into the gable facing the camera. The building was set back from the viewer, sitting in a field of grass sprinkled with dandelions gone to seed. It looked as though whoever had taken the photo had been lying in the grass. 

Darcy wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Was he sending her some kind of secret message? Or just showing her where he was at the moment? If he was hiding in the grass, it didn’t seem very undercover-agent-like to be sending pictures of his stakeout to his girlfriend over the Interwebs. 

She sent him a single question mark back, but he didn’t respond. 

She asked him about it again when he finally texted her, a couple of days later.

 

_Darcy:  So what’s with the brick building?_

            _Is it some super secret spy thing_  
            _that u shouldn’t be sharing with_  
            _me?_

            _Should I delete it?_

 

_Bucky:  Nah._

            _Just a pretty place I stopped for_  
            _lunch_

 

_Darcy:  Oh. Cool then._

 

She got another picture the next day; this time it was a sheep, also in a field of grass, staring right at the camera from about three feet away. Its fur was a dirty beige color and next to it, lying in the grass, were two little white lambs— not newborns, but still cute as hell, all white and wooly with pink-lined ears, like something out of a baby book about farm animals. The mama sheep had some kind of crappy metal chain attached to it, disappearing somewhere beneath the shaggy wool at its neck, which sort of marred the overall cuteness factor, but Darcy still went _awww_ a little bit— not just at the animals, but also at that idea that a tough guy like Bucky would stop to photograph a family of sheep. 

She wished she had something interesting or notable to send back, but there was nothing she could think of around the compound that he hadn’t already seen, that would be worth sending. 

That changed a few days later, when the delivery guy dropped a package on her desk— her new bras had arrived, and she immediately thought of Bucky: _here’s something you haven’t seen yet_ … 

She decided to make good on her joke (threat?) to model them for him— well, at least one of them; she had a picture ready to go the next time she heard from him.

 

_Bucky:  What you doin_

 

_Darcy:  Oh nothing_

            _Just trying on these new bras_

 

Before he could make any reply, she’d sent him the selfie she’d taken earlier, and had been waiting a day-and-a-half to zing him with. 

It’d taken her a while to decide which pose she liked best— was it sexier to just be in the bra, or to have a shirt on, but unbuttoned all the way? She finally settled on the one with the shirt— he’d obviously been into slowly undoing her blouse that time on her bed, but she’d fallen asleep before he’d gotten the chance to take it very far. Maybe a hint of that— the promise of things to come— would turn his crank a little. 

It was a good picture. Darcy wasn’t delicate up top— she had some serious boobage going on— and the red lace full-figure cups did nice things to the girls, pushing them up into what she hoped looked like luscious, kissable mounds. The silky navy-blue shirt hung from her shoulders, as though she’d just finished unbuttoning it and had been… surprised— at least as surprised as you could play at being, if you were also taking a selfie at the time… and you had the opportunity to adjust into a sexy position, shoulders slightly pulled back, red lips parted… 

His reaction didn’t disappoint:

 

_Bucky:  Jesus_

            _I’m gonna need a minute_

 

She was too busy cackling in glee to respond right away, and he gave her more:

 

_Bucky:  Fuck_

            _Baby doll_

            _You’re gonna kill me_

 

_Darcy:  Do NOT circulate that_

 

_Bucky:  What do you take me for?_

 

She couldn’t tell from the text if he was playing along, joking, or if he was actually mad— like he’d misunderstood, thought she was really worried he would do something sleazy like that. She was about to clear it up when he texted again.

 

 _Bucky:  Like I’m gonna let anyone else get a_  
            _look at that gorgeous sight_

            _Don’t need nobody else jackin off to_  
            _my girl_

 

_Darcy:  Just you, huh?_

 

She added a wink emoji and then followed it up with an obviously needy question. So shoot her. She wanted to hear him say it.

 

_Darcy:  That what I am? Your girl?_

 

_Bucky:  Course you’re my girl_

            _And yeah. Just me_

 

_Darcy:  Good to know_

            _Also good to know my boobies are_  
            _jack-worthy_

 

_Bucky:  Oh sweetheart you got no idea_

 

<<>>

He was texting her every few days— just a short conversation here and there, when he could get away with it. When he couldn’t actually talk, he’d at least send a picture— almost one a day— for which she was grateful. It told her he was alive. 

One of the newer pictures had some more of that orange-red brick, but this time it was a cylindrical tower, like something you’d see at a medieval castle— complete with little arched windows cut out up high, and indented battlements ringing the top. The building was again set back from the viewer, but this time, instead of a field in the foreground, there was a dirty asphalt parking lot, being used by a handful of elementary-school-age boys throwing a scuffed-up ball around. None of the boys were looking at Bucky, whom she assumed was the one who’d taken the picture, and that detail— their lack of interest in him— seemed odd, with his being such a striking figure. 

She wondered if he was traveling under some kind of bland disguise, pretending to be a tourist or maybe even a local. She imagined him shaving his beard off, leaving a dorky mustache behind. The idea made her laugh out loud in the lab, causing Jane to look up at her with raised eyebrows. 

Some of the pictures made her laugh too, like the one taken at some kind of outdoor market, zoomed in on a selection of a dozen different varieties of potato, each type in its own wide-slat bushel basket, arranged in a nice three-tiered display. Each basket had a handwritten card stuck to it, the words in an alphabet she couldn’t read, presumably describing the variety, followed by its price. She recognized the letters as Cyrillic, so she figured he must be in some eastern European country— at least on that particular day. 

“ _U got a thing for potatoes?_ ” she’d said to that one, but she’d gotten no response— most of the time when he sent a picture on its own, the channel was already closed by the time she received it. 

She had an urge to combine the clue of the Cyrillic language on the potato stand, along with the two orange-brick buildings— the ‘1909’ one from the first picture he’d sent, and the castle-like tower— to maybe figure out where he was, using the power of the Internet. 

She considered it, but in the end she just left it alone. It wasn’t a puzzle to solve. She didn’t need to know, any more than she needed to know what he was doing there. She wondered if it involved killing anybody. She wondered if he would tell her, if it did. 

<<>>

 

_Bucky:  Whatcha doin_

 

_Darcy:  Nothin much_

            _Was thinkin of watching a movie_

 

_Bucky:  You want me to let you go?_

 

_Darcy:  No way_

            _I’d rather talk to u_

            _Or you could watch the movie with me_

 

_Bucky:  How would we do that?_

 

_Darcy:  You got wifi where you’re at?_

            _Earbuds?_

            _Power?_

            _Time?_

 

_Bucky:  Yeah. To all 4_

            _I’m actually on a train right now_

            _Takin a day trip_

            _Well, night really_

            _Gonna be sittin here for a few hours_

 

_Darcy:  Perfect_

            _This will be great_

            _Pretend I’m there with u_

            _Wait can u keep the channel open_  
            _that long?_

 

 _Bucky:  No but I don’t need to keep it open_  
            _while we’re watchin, right?_

 

_Darcy:  No_

            _You should be able to download it to_  
            _your app if your phone’s like mine_

 

_Bucky:  What are we gonna watch_

 

 _Darcy:  Well I was about to watch the_  
            _Princess Bride_

 

_Bucky:  Never heard of it_

            _Sounds like somethin for girls_

 

_Darcy:  I predict ur gonna love it_

            _Don’t let the name fool you_

 

_Bucky:  Ok I’ll take your word for it_

 

She walked him through downloading the film to the movie app on his phone— he’d never even used it before— and then they set a time to start it up, so it’d be like they were watching it together… just thousands of miles apart. 

Bucky leaned back in the private berth of his first-class sleeper cabin, while Darcy snuggled down into her bed covers, and together they sank into the magic of Westley and Buttercup, Inigo Montoya, and all the rest of the brilliant cast in a tale that never failed to make Darcy laugh but also feel all gooey inside. It was a well-spent 98 minutes.

 

_Bucky:  Wow_

 

_Darcy:  Did you like it?_

 

 _Bucky:  I didn’t think I was gonna, but I_  
            _really did_

            _Thanks for sharin it with me_

            _Just wish you’d been here with me,_  
            _really watchin it together_

 

_Darcy:  Yeah me too_

            _Though if I’d been with u I don’t_  
            _think we’d of watched very much_  
            _of the movie_

 

_Bucky:  Yeah you’re probably right_

 

 _Darcy:  At least now we can quote the lines_  
            _to each other like a couple of dorks_

 

_Bucky:  My name is Inigo Montoya_

            _You killed my father_

            _Prepare to die_

 

_Darcy:  OMG I love you_

 

It’d just popped out— thumbed out and sent before she could stop it— and it was in the sense of, ‘ _you totally rock_ ’; not the scary ‘ _you are my special love bean_ ’ kind of way, even though she was starting to feel that too… but still, once it was out there, in writing, she felt her breath stop, wondering how he’d take it. His reply was swift.

 

_Bucky:  Love you too, doll_

 

<<>>

About six weeks in, there was a period of four days when she didn’t hear from him at all. 

The weather had turned in New York, and on her after-lunch walk around the track outside, the humidity was making sweat pool in all the dips and furrows of her body, running in tickling little rivulets down her cleavage and her spine and sticking in the backs of her knees and under her boobs. It was well and truly summer now, and he’d be coming home pretty soon. 

She wondered if it was hot, where he was. She wondered if he was okay. 

A picture came in at 11pm her time that night, without any accompanying text, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she lay in her bed and studied it. It was a bleak-looking photo of an enormous grass field with some houses far in the distance, only their roofs showing, the rest of them hidden by a downward slope. There wasn’t a visible road anywhere, but there may have been one nearby, because a tidy line of electrical poles created a border along the right-hand side of the photo, getting smaller and smaller as they approached the vanishing point in a thick layer of fog. It looked like it was dawn there; she could almost feel the chill of the dewy grass. 

There was something slightly ominous about it, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Like maybe his target lay in one of those houses. Someone inside in the distance, alive for now, maybe making breakfast… totally unaware that death was waiting out there in the field, on the other side of the fog. 

The truth was, she didn’t even know if he still killed for a living— that kind of premeditated, targeted killing that she knew even the good guys did from time-to-time. For all she knew, he was there to rescue someone, and they needed an agent who was tough, discreet, and could speak Russian. She knew better than to ask any of these questions. It was part of the job— all of their jobs— not to ask if you weren’t invited to. She was grateful he was bending the rules just enough to check in with her at all. 

She truly had it easy, compared to some people— when Thor went away for _months_ at a time, it wasn’t like he could send texts or pictures to Jane from across the realms. It dawned on her, maybe for the first time, how much that must truly suck for her boss. And how much she must love him, to exercise that kind of patience and trust. 

Darcy’d never been with anyone who’d deserved that kind of devotion. Not until now. 

Twelve hours later, she was stretched out on a lounge chair outside, enjoying her Saturday off. She was wearing her favorite black bikini, soaking up some rays— if you could still say that, when you had three gallons of sunscreen painted on every square inch of your body. She was just lying there, slowly melting in the heat, listening to some music, cursing the lack of an outdoor pool at the compound, when another picture came in. 

This one was gorgeous— a line of four enormous trees, all in a row, filling the frame, their trunks and the bulk of their leaves silhouetted black against a breathtaking purple and pink sunset. She responded right away, hoping the channel was open.

 

_Darcy:  Wow_

 

_Bucky:  Whatcha doin beautiful_

 

_Darcy:  Sunbathing_

            _Fucking hot here_

            _Might go in soon_

 

_Bucky:  Lemme see_

 

_Darcy:  K. One sec_

 

She held her arms as far away from herself as possible, to fit the entire bikini into the frame, and then made a smooch face at the camera right before clicking the button.

 

_Bucky:  Fuck_

            _You’re the one that’s hot_

            _Jesus_

 

_Darcy:  Which pic do you like better?_

            _Bikini, or bra?_

 

_Bucky:  That’s an impossible question_

            _Want them both_

            _If I were there right now I’d pick_  
            _you up_

            _Toss you over my shoulder_

            _Carry you back to my room_

 

_Darcy:  Oh yeah?_

            _That sounds like some caveman-level_  
            _shit to me_

            _I like it_

            _Makin me hot, just thinking about it_

 

_Bucky:  You’re already hot_

 

_Darcy:  Ok then it’s making me wet_

 

_Bucky:  Jesus doll_

 

As much as a part of her wanted to push it— to talk dirty to him, to find out what he’d say back— she made a conscious decision to dial it down instead. It wasn’t like her to pull back like that, but she realized it wouldn’t do anything but torture herself right along with him— that she’d just ache for him more, in the long run, and not in a fun way. 

She abruptly changed the subject to what she’d wanted to tell him in the first place:

 

_Darcy:  That picture was gorgeous_

            _The colors_

 

_Bucky:  I’m sittin there right now_

            _Made me think of you, lookin at it_

 

And then she did go ahead and torture herself a little, because she couldn’t help it. Not with anything filthy— just with the force of her intentions. She needed him to know.

 

_Darcy:  I’m gonna wreck u when you get back_

            _U know that, right?_

            _It’s gonna be ugly_

            _I’m talkin our muscles are gonna be_  
            _so sore we’ll have to stay in bed for_  
            _days, moaning and taking pain_  
            _killers, and it’ll be totally fucking_  
            _worth it_

 

 _Bucky:  You know my muscles don’t get sore_  
            _like that no more, right?_

            _I heal up too fast_

 

_Darcy:  Is that another challenge?_

            _Because that sounds like a_  
            _challenge to me_

 

_Bucky:  You threatenin to wear me out?_

 

_Darcy:  Is it possible?_

 

_Bucky:  Couldn’t say_

            _But I’m willin to try_

 

…

 

_Bucky:  Doll?_

            _You still there?_

 

_Darcy:  Yeah_

            _Just feeling sad all of a sudden_

 

_Bucky:  How come_

 

_Darcy:  I think I’m already worn out_

            _Worn out from missing u_

            _I need u to come home to me and_  
            _kiss it better_

 

_Bucky:  I know sweetheart_

            _I want to_

            _Almost done_

            _Bout 10 more days_

 

And she almost got teary-eyed then, and part of her was thinking, _Who are you even?_   Because it wasn’t like her to get so worked up over some guy— a guy she barely even knew. But it was like he had a rope tied around her heart and he was tugging on it…

She changed the subject.

 

_Darcy:  It’s so hot here already_

            _Is it hot there?_

 

_Bucky:  Not too bad_

            _Not like summer in NY_

 

...

...

...

Summer in New York... 

Bucky lay back and closed his eyes, there in the field where the purple sunset was darkening now to deep midnight blue... he rested the phone on his chest and went back in his mind… 

He could still remember some of the good things, if he worked at it: little bits and pieces from the past... hints of images, flashes of sensory details... he could remember the smell... 

Summer in New York had always been a barrage of odors, most of them bad— the garbage piled up on the street, cooking in the sun; the sewery blast of hot air from subway grates; the smell of meat, both burning and raw, from butchers or food carts; cigarettes... cigars… melting tar… the piss and shit and refuse of people all crushed together, trying to live… 

Bucky’d added his own scent to the mix in his memory, and then he was there, inside of it— the smell of hard physical labor, of working all day under the beat of the sun, his chest soaked in sweat, dripping off his hair— and he knew he’d come off his shift smelling like a week-old underarm, but somehow it hadn’t dampened his appeal… he was walking by the girls from the neighborhood on the way home, and they were like rows of flowers, so fresh and light — all of them different, all of them lovely in their own way— showing off their skin in their pretty summer dresses, and they were smiling and flirting with him, their voices like a song— ‘ _Hi Bucky_ …’ and he was smiling back as he mopped the sweat from his brow… 

He’d felt so alive… 

Had that really been him? They were his memories… they belonged to him… 

There’d always been a disconnect… like all of that had been _then_ , and this was _now_ , and he and that guy— they weren’t the same person at all… it was more like remembering a movie you’d seen, a character you liked, knowing you could never be him… 

But the more he talked to Darcy, the more he was feeling those memories bubble up, the sensations coming into sharper focus, and there were times now when he could actually remember _being_ that guy, instead of just looking in on it from the outside— could remember being in that skin, feeling the way he’d strutted and smiled and how his confidence hadn’t been a put-on, like now… 

The only thing he’d felt real confidence about, since Steve had brought him back, in this other version of himself— the one that Hydra’d made, and that he’d been left to live with— was his finger on a trigger… 

But this gorgeous, funny, dream of a girl— Darcy— somehow, she was bringing it back… the way she talked to him, flirted with him like she could see something else, something more than just a weapon… it made him want to find out— at least to try… 

She made it worth the risk… to see if that guy was still in there, somewhere… a guy who could make a pretty girl laugh and smile and wanna be around him… just like those girls from long ago, seeing some kind of appeal, in spite of the sweat…

 

_Darcy:  U still there?_

 

Bucky opened his eyes and sat up. He knew what he wanted.

 

_Bucky:  Fuck_

            _Can’t wait to see you_

            _Can’t wait to come home_


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Ten days later, right on schedule, the text came in:

 

_Bucky:  All done here_

            _I’m comin home_

            _ETA tomorrow afternoon_

            _Btwn 3-4 your time_

 

_Darcy:  Holy shit for real?_

 

_Bucky:  Yeah_

 

_Darcy:  Woooooooooooooooo_

 

_Bucky:  You should see the grin on my face_

 

Darcy wanted to type, ‘ _so show me_ ’, craving a look at him, but he’d been oddly reticent about the types of pictures he’d sent her— never any selfies; the view always looking out, away. 

It was almost like he thought he didn’t have anything going on that anyone would _want_ to look at, which was _insane_ … or maybe he was just old-fashioned, and thought selfies were narcissistic. 

Though he certainly hadn’t complained about the ones _she’d_ sent…

 

_Bucky:  Got any plans tomorrow night?_

 

_Darcy:  Yeah. You._

            _Where r u landing?_

            _Can I meet you somewhere?_

 

 _Bucky:  Think Barton’s gettin me from the_  
            _airport_

            _I’ll text you when I’m close_

 

_Darcy:  K_

 

She almost did it again— almost said, ‘ _I love you_ ’— and she realized, with a little mental intake of breath, that it was true. Something had happened over those eight weeks, even though they hadn’t spent one day of it in the same room. 

It was odd. It didn’t really make sense. But it was true anyway. She loved him. She loved her metal-armed sharpshooting spy who sent her pictures of potatoes and lambs and purple sunsets and who agreed to watch a movie with her from 5,000 miles away and had given her bigger body tingles from just a few kisses than she’d gotten from all of the crappy sex she’d had over the last five years, combined. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She tended to jump into bed fast, and worry about the feelings later. That’d been her intention here, too, but the forced separation had made her slow it all down, and it was messing with her head, and now here she was, _loving_ him for cripe’s sake, and they hadn’t even seen each other naked yet. 

She’d love him even if he hadn’t been interested in her as more than a friend, though it would have killed her— she would have had to start a GoFundMe for all the new vibrators she would have needed. The fact that he _was_ interested, and apparently as more than just a casual fuck— had called her his _girl_ even though all they’d done was kiss— made it so much more aching and sweet. 

Well, ‘ _sweet_ ’ wasn’t the right way to put it. She was fucking on fire for him. Bucky Barnes was in big, big trouble. 

<<>>

Jane had mercy on her the next day— or maybe just wanted to get rid of her useless, fidgeting ass— and told her to go home after lunch, so she could freshen up and obsess over what to wear. 

She was grateful that Jane had full power over her schedule, rather than some Stark Industries suit, because she doubted that ‘ _urgent need for reunion sex_ ’ counted as a valid reason for most people to take a half-day… 

It was hard to decide what to wear, and not just from the pressure of wanting to look good. It was fucking hot and humid out— had felt more like August than late June for the past couple of days— but the compound was icy-cold from the over-cranked A/C, so she was doomed to be uncomfortable no matter what she wore, and she had no idea if they’d be going outside or staying in, or— 

Oh who was she kidding. Obviously, the plan was to just rip each other’s clothes off as quickly as possible, and woe be to anyone or anything that got in the way. 

She finally settled on the red bra— because of course— and the matching panties, which were so tiny that they could barely count as a garment. They weren’t really even meant to be _worn_ — they were more of garnish, to be admired and then removed. She even took the time to tidy up her bush, just in case things _really_ went her way… 

God, the thought of that mouth between her legs… _guhhh_ … 

She picked dark-wash stretch jeans to show off her ass. A cute little button-up shirt with a tie at the bottom, just to give him something to unwrap. She reapplied her no-smudge lipstick and made a smacking kiss sound at her reflection in the mirror. 

She had an urge to wait for him over at the landing zone— to be a total girl, a complete loser who had no life. To give into the need to be desperate and clingy, and see him the very moment he deplaned. To run to him in slow motion, like every sappy movie she’d pretended to hate. 

She did an admirable job of talking herself out of it— not just for her own dignity, but also not wanting to terrify him with coming on so strong, assaulting him with all the new feelings she’d realized she was having… especially when she knew she was likely under the spell of _long-distance-pining_. That shit was like voodoo. 

She should wait, see him first, re-evaluate… see if what she was feeling was actually real. She was proud of herself, for being so level-headed and mature. Uh huh. 

She was already pacing the hallway down by the gear and locker rooms at 4:15, trying not to look too pathetic as she counted the minutes, knowing he’d head there first to organize and stow his stuff, and maybe get a shower. It was like the diet version of waiting at the landing zone: still pathetic, but not full-blown crazy-chick desperate. At least it was honest. Waiting in her room, reading-not-reading a book, pretending not to care when he got back, would be so ludicrous that she’d never even considered it. 

Her phone chimed. 

 

_Bucky:  Hey doll, gonna be a bit later_

            _Got delayed refueling_

            _Lookin at 5:30 now_

 

_Darcy:  You gonna want dinner?_

            _You hungry?_

 

_Bucky:  Not really_

            _Just wanna stow my shit and come_  
            _find you_

 

She was practically squealing in delight at those words, and her immediate instinct was to reply with some kind of invitation to a party in her lady garden, but she exercised great restraint, and tried to imagine how a normal, mature woman would respond. 

 

_Darcy:  Let me know when you land_

 

She killed the extra hour by going back up to the coffee cart by administration— the one where they’d had their first date— and ordered a large ice-coffee, which she totally did _not_ need; her nervous excitement already had her whole body vibrating on a cellular level. She was starting to second-guess everything, now that she had too much time to think about it. She thought about going back to her room, taking another shower, changing outfits again… maybe she was overdoing it, with the shoes and the makeup and… 

She forced herself to sit down instead, tried to find something on her phone to occupy the time. It was quiet— only a few other people around, lone workers sipping at their own drinks, engrossed in their own screens, and their comparative calm demeanors just seemed to highlight her own restlessness. 

She remembered how nervous _he’d_ been that day, when they’d met there for their first and only real date. How his leg had kept jiggling under the table, how he’d barely been able to make eye contact with her. How relieved he’d seemed, when she’d asked him if he wanted to go outside. 

It’d been surprising to see those kinds of nerves in such a powerful man, but she’d already known enough of his history and reputation to expect a certain level of guardedness— anxiety, even. She knew he never left the compound except for work, and that when he was on-site, he stuck to his rostered duties, rarely socializing other than to grab a meal in the cafeteria with some of the guys. He’d been a mystery. A broody, somewhat-scary, hot-as-fuck mystery. 

She never would have considered making a move, if she’d hadn’t caught him watching her one day in the cafeteria, and it’d been so fucking endearing— the way he’d looked away and tried to hide it— that she’d been instantly roped in. It’d surprised her, really. She didn’t think he was looking for that kind of action, in spite of what all the books and articles said about his past; she hadn’t even been entirely sure he was straight— that maybe all the stories had been a cover for some long-simmering relationship with his best buddy, and wasn’t _that_ a smoldering thought… 

So when she caught him looking, it’d been a surprise on a bunch of different levels, maybe the greatest of which being, _why me?_ Because a guy who looked like that could have anyone. 

Maybe he was just testing the waters. Like Jane had said, way back when— that maybe he was just out of practice. Maybe she was meant to be his trial-run. Maybe she’d messed up, catching real feelings for him while he was away. Maybe she was already in too deep, and she was gonna get her heart squashed. Maybe that’s why she was so butt-headed when Jane poked at her about whether or not he was her _boyfriend_. Because the truth was (there was no more denying it), she really, really wanted him to be. 

She’d saved all the pictures he’d sent her, in their own folder on her phone, and now she was scrolling through them as she sipped her coffee, trying to pass the time, and as she made her way through them— over fifty of them, in total— something in her gut coiled and squeezed and crushed the breath out of her, because looking at them all in a row like that, she finally got the full impact of what he’d done— and it was enough to squash all of those _maybes_ , if she was really paying attention… if she had the courage to. 

He’d been doing something, in sending her the pictures… maybe not consciously— the surface reason was certainly just to say, ‘ _hey I’m still here_ ’— but she could feel something else there now, a murmur beneath it. Taken together, as one long piece, it was almost like he’d made some kind of poem. The unusual subjects… the way he’d framed them, the lack of commentary… he was showing her the world through his eyes, the things he was seeing… what stood out to him… wanting to share it with her, but letting her draw her own conclusions. 

He was saying something… something he hadn’t said outright in the texts— not in so many words: _You mean something. You matter to me_. 

<<>>

It was 5:20, and she was just standing up to toss the empty plastic cup in recycling, when the texts came in: 

 

_Bucky:  Just landed_

            _Gotta stow my shit and take a_  
            _shower_

            _Then I’m comin to find you_

 

She scrambled to get untangled from her chair and stumbled to the recycling, almost twisting her ankle in the cute but impractical high-wedge sandals she’d chosen for her outfit, and wound up hip-checking herself painfully on the corner of the condiment kiosk, making several patrons look up as she yelped, “Ah, _fuck_.” 

She limped her way over the elevator, scolding herself as she massaged her hip, thinking about the ugly bruise that was sure to come. _So much for a good naked first impression_ , she thought, as she punched the down arrow for the elevator. 

The car finally arrived and she got in, and hit the number to go back to the gear and locker rooms, her heart already starting to accelerate. She used her fingers to clean up any stains at the corners of her lips, and rubbed them together out of habit, wanting to redistribute her lipstick, even though the no-smudge made it unnecessary. 

The elevator stopped, and she got out, sternly mom-voicing herself to _walk— don’t run_ — as she made her way down the hallway and around the corner and down the next, past the women’s and men’s locker rooms, past the gear room, and she could hear voices now, and she turned yet another corner and then he was there, near the end of the long hallway. 

He was walking side-by-side with Barton, who saw her first— he put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and said something like, “Catch you later,” as Bucky stopped in his tracks, and then Barton may have winked— it was hard to tell from fifty feet away— and then headed back the way he’d come, leaving Bucky there alone, at the end of the hallway. 

And it was the weirdest feeling, as she looked at him there in the distance— so familiar, but at the same time, in many ways, a stranger to her… a stranger she somehow felt she’d known longer than some of her closest friends, and that made no sense at all. 

She’d almost forgotten how drop-dead sexy he was— had gotten caught up with the stuff going on in her head, the words they’d traded, the feelings she was having— but as he started walking toward her again, slowly eating up the distance between them in what felt like a deliberately casual pace, her heart started to pick up again, and a smile broke out on her face as she just stood there and admired the view. 

He looked good— even after what must have been a grueling itinerary and who-knows-how-much jet lag— and she wanted to take a running leap, scale the height of his body and inhale him. Pull off his dirty clothes and put her hands on his skin. Instead she just stood there, her hands in the back pockets of her stretch jeans, and she was kind of swaying her hips back and forth playfully as he approached, the smile stretching slyly across her face, almost coy, like she had a secret and he was coming over to find out what she hiding. 

And then he was standing right in front of her, all six feet of him, and he dropped his duffel bag and licked his lips as his eyes roved over her face, and just the way he was looking at her— so serious, so full of feeling— was making her wet… 

“Hey, you,” she finally said, completely casual, as though they hadn’t communicated in weeks… as though they hadn’t planned this: to meet up, skip dinner— skip everything— and just find somewhere to rip off their clothes and screw. Well, that was _her_ plan, at least. 

He started to move in, and she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead his big arms wrapped around her, lifting her a little as he held her tightly to him, and her own arms wrapped quickly around his body, and for a while they just hugged, and it felt so good— so right— that her eyes were almost stinging. His clothes were dirty and he smelled pretty ripe, and she didn’t even care. Leaned into it even— the scent of his masculine body just proof that he was really there, that she could finally touch him, enjoy the feeling of his strong arms around her. 

He put her down finally, stepped back just a bit, and said, “I’m gettin’ my dirt all over you,” and she felt a little self-conscious then, having obviously dressed up for him, while he was still in his work clothes, pretty much filthy from head-to-toe, clearly needing a shower, but he looked beautiful anyway, and she wondered if she’d have looked as beautiful to him if she’d shown up in _her_ dirty work clothes and 10-hour-old makeup and hair— if just being herself would be enough to bring a smile onto his face, and she had the weirdest feeling that maybe it would. 

She was leaning back against the wall of the corridor now, and his hands had dropped to her waist, and he was looking her up and down, and he said, “You look pretty,” and it was so simple and sweet, and she could tell that it wasn’t just a line— he really meant it. 

His flesh hand moved up to pull a strand of hair away from her face, and it almost seemed like he was nervous— nervous about a kiss, even after all the flirty back-and-forth and the innuendos and the flat-out promises they’d made to wreck each other, and she wondered if he was feeling it too— that _stranger-but-not-a-stranger_ thing, or if maybe it’d just been easier for him to do that stuff through texts than it was for him face-to-face. 

She licked her lips and saw his eyes move to her mouth, and then he breathed out and said, “I’m gonna kiss you now.” 

She leaned up to meet him halfway, grabbing onto his vest and tilting her head to come at him in a slant, their heads like the two lines of an X, meeting in the middle. His lips were warm and soft and it was everything she’d ever wanted from a tender kiss, a kiss with _meaning_ , and it dissolved all of her plans to play it cool, to keep it light and flirty until she figured out where they were at. He was already showing her with that kiss, and she made a needy little sound in her throat as her hands pulled at his vest, the feeling of liquid fire spreading down through her body… 

He had his hand on the back of her head, cradling it so that he was drinking from her instead of just pushing her back, and he smelled good through the sweat, something leathery and spicy and uniquely him, and she could taste the cheap coffee he must have had on the plane, and she realized she’d missed the feeling of his beard on her face, and then her eyes were doing it again— stinging from the feelings— and for a second she almost felt scared, because there was no backing away from this— no way she could slap a mask over it— and it was a feeling she didn’t know how to navigate. 

She was just running out of breath when he pulled back, his hand curled around the back of her neck, his forehead pressed against her, and they took a few seconds, neither of them speaking, and then she tilted her face up, risked a look into his eyes, which blinked open when she moved, and he was right there— staring back, almost vulnerable, and then something in his pupils changed, went from soft to something more hungry, and then they were both scrambling, crashing together again… 

She could feel the heat of his breath, the scrape of his beard, the raw _want_ he was pouring into her as he kissed her jaw, her neck— she was going to have beard-burn again for sure, but she didn’t care; wanted it, even— wanted the mark of his heat all over her— and his hands were running down to her hips, and he hooked his fingers into the belt-loops on each side, pulling her into him, and she brushed against the front of his pants just long enough to tell he was hard, and they needed to get out of that hallway, because she didn’t want to have to keep pumping the brakes on it— needed to get him alone, get those pants off… 

“ _Wait… stop…_ ” she finally said, trying to slow down, a hand on his chest, and he pulled back immediately, tensing, and she rushed to reassure him. 

“Can’t keep… I mean, not here,” she breathed out, explaining, and he nodded and let go of her, ran a hand through his hair as he took a step back, just enough so he could see her, his gaze sweeping over her body, looking at everything, like he needed to convince himself she was real. 

She was staring at him too, almost like she was seeing him for the first time— not the hot soldier who worked in the same building, the panty-dropping face she’d fantasized about before she’d gotten to know him, but everything else… the truth underneath— the person she’d fallen in love with. 

She stepped forward a little, and reached one hand up to feel his face, ran her thumb across his lower lip, soft and still a little wet from kissing her, and he just breathed, letting her touch him as he stared at her, and jeez, his eyes were pretty— had they always been that blue? 

She moved her hand up the side of his jaw, loving the scrape of his beard as her fingertips ran against the grain; he’d gotten a lot scruffier while he’d been away. It looked good on him, but she found herself giggling. 

“What’s funny,” he said, finally giving her a smile, and it looked so good on his face that it almost took her breath away, and she thought, _I wanna wake up and see that smile every goddamned day_ … 

“I was wondering if you’d shaved off your beard,” she said, trying to explain it. “Like, changed over to some kinda eastern-European track-suit-wearing creeper-mustache look, to blend in. I was trying to imagine how dorky you’d look.” 

“You want me to?” he said, his voice low and teasing, and he’d stepped a little more into her, almost crowding her again as he looked at her face, and she could feel her panties flooding just from the sound of his voice, the rumble, and the way he was looking at her as he said it. She wondered if he had any idea what kind of power he had. Something told her he didn’t— maybe once had, but not anymore. 

“I could go take care of it right now…” 

“Don’t you dare,” she said, and she lifted up on her tippy-toes to bridge the gap, and they were both quiet for a minute, except for the sounds of their labored breathing as they kissed each other again— not as desperate this time, but with a different kind of heat, and she felt like she couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get close enough, and she actually whimpered a little when he pulled away, watched as he shut his eyes and licked his lips. 

“God, I missed you,” he said, and it was soft, serious, and when he opened his eyes again, there was an intensity there that matched the tug in her own chest, and for once she was speechless, like the force of it— the validation of all her feelings— was spilling out of her like a shock wave… 

“I gotta— just give me a minute to put this shit away. Get cleaned up.” He was stepping back, reaching for his bag, and he sounded as dazed as she felt. 

“I don’t even care if you’re clean,” she said, almost whispering, and she was leaning against the wall of the corridor, trying not to slide down, her legs like limp noodles after what he’d done to her with his mouth, with his voice, and she was staring at him like he wasn’t real— like if she let him out of her sight he might vanish again… 

He smiled a little at her words, and said, “I appreciate the thought, but… I been on three different planes in the past twelve hours… ain’t showered in over twenty-four. I just— I’m gonna put this stuff away, take the quickest shower of my life. Just gimme… ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.” 

“Kay,” she said, and she was smiling at him like she was half-asleep as he backed away from her down the hallway, his eyes still locked upon her. 

“If you’re not back out here in fifteen minutes,” she said, raising her voice as he got further away, “I’m comin’ in to get you, and I don’t care whose naked-ass butts are in that locker room or how many people write me up for it.” 

He grinned again and then repeated it even as he continued to back away: “Fifteen minutes.” And then he finally swiveled around and half-jogged down the hall to go stow his gear. 

She followed, slowly, almost wobbling, like she’d had too much to drink. _I’m drunk on him_ , she thought, smiling to herself at the idea, because it was true. _I’m drunk on Bucky Barnes_. And if that was how it felt just to kiss him… fuck, she was in trouble. 

She passed the door to the gear room, which had interior connections to both the men’s and women’s locker rooms, and planted herself outside the main entrance to the men’s, and leaned against the wall again, and then there was nothing to do but wait for him to come out. 

<<>>

He was back in less than the fifteen minutes he’d promised, the ends of his long hair still dripping, his grey V-necked tee-shirt damp just under the V, where his chest hair was probably still wet from the shower. He was in clean black jeans and he’d ditched the duffel bag along with all of his gear, so that all he had in his hands was his cell phone, which he shoved into one of his pockets. 

They didn’t even say anything— she just pushed off the wall, reached out to grab his hand, and then they walked casually, as though they had all the time in the world, back down that hallway and the next until they were standing at the bank of elevators, and Bucky leaned forward to press the up-arrow button with his metal finger. 

“We’re going to my place,” she said. “I don’t want Steve interrupting us.” And then she did a pretty good impression of Steve, making Bucky laugh: “ _Oh hey, Buck, how was the trip back? You eat any good food over there? How was the weather? It’s been hot here— real hot. I’m just heatin’ up some spaghetti, you guys want some? Say, have you ever tried this low-sodium marinara…_ ” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting her off, even as he was still laughing at her impression. “For the record, I wasn’t gonna argue against goin’ to your place. Need privacy for what I wanna do to you. Don’t need Stevie hearin’ all of that.” 

The car arrived then, interrupting her silent prayers of thanks to all the gods who had anything to do with getting laid, and they stepped in and turned around to face front, standing side-by-side, and she pressed the button for her floor, and then the door closed, and it was very, very quiet for about three seconds while his last statement still hung in the air between them… 

And then they both moved at once, turning and grasping at each other, hands everywhere, and it was all panting and he heard himself saying, “ _God_ ,” and then he hoisted her up enough for her to wrap her legs around his waist, both of them tumbling backward until his shoulder banged into the wall of the elevator, rocking it, and he almost laughed as he focused on not dropping her as they swayed, because it felt so heady, to be out of control in a _good_ way, and her nails were raking against the back of his scalp and he was kissing her neck, his hand moving her long hair out of the way so he could reach all of the exposed parts with his mouth, and she was lifting her jaw up so he could get more, and she was moaning his name… 

“ _Bucky…_ ” 

He couldn’t stop kissing her, wanted to drink the taste of her skin— her lips, her jaw, her neck, her collarbones— and as his mouth ran over her, his breath hot against her neck, his flesh hand smoothed up and down the side of her shirt and then over the full curve of her breast for the first time, massaging it once, and he sighed because even through her clothes she felt so damn soft, and he wanted to rip her shirt open and kiss her there too, and he was already so hard again that it hurt… 

And then the elevator went _ding_ and the doors opened, and thankfully there was nobody there, because they were already so disheveled, their bodies all wrapped up in each other, their breathing so heavy, that anyone looking in would have assumed they were already full-on fucking in there. 

They were trying to disengage, both of them dazed, and they were so slow to react that the door started shutting again, and he had to reach out and press the _Door Open_ button, and then he was carrying her down the hall while she kissed him all over on his face, and he was really hoping they could get inside before anyone saw them, because he didn’t need any fucking stupid gossips wagging their tongues, cheapening this with the lewd jokes and comments he’d seen other people subjected to whenever there was some kind of workplace romance. 

This was different. This wasn’t just a fling, for people to smirk and titter at. At least he hoped it wasn’t. 

He set her down gently outside her door, and they both sort of laughed about it, because it felt like, ‘ _Here we go again_ ,’ or, hopefully, ‘ _Third time’s a charm_ ,’ even if the first time he’d stood outside her door, after their coffee date, he’d shut it down electively. He probably wouldn’t have, if he’d known how hard it was gonna be to get alone with her… 

And then she was tugging him inside and she shut the door and dropped her phone on the sideboard, and he thought he should take off his boots, but she just grabbed his hand again, tugging on it, leading him back to her bedroom, and there weren’t any nerves for him this time, at least not yet— he just wanted to put his mouth back on her skin, as soon as possible. 

And they were falling onto her bed, kissing again as they tumbled around, sloppy, their mouths missing as much as they hit, because they were both moving around so much, fighting for domination, until finally she was on her back, surrendering to him, and he was kissing her as his metal hand worked the buttons on her blouse, and he got all the way down to the bottom where the fabric was knotted in a cute little tie, and he was unwrapping her like it was the best fucking present of his life… 

He made a little noise, exhaling, when her shirt fell open completely, revealing the red bra, and the creamy soft flesh of her breasts where they were pushed up and exposed above the cups. She grinned at his reaction, catching her lower lip under her teeth, and he couldn’t even pause to savor the view, because his mouth was already there… 

He was bathing in the scent of her— that musky vanilla with notes of almond and spice— as his lips feathered over the soft, warm mounds of her flesh, not even kissing her yet— just wanting to feel that he was really there, as his hands skimmed over the delicate fabric, overwhelmed that he was finally allowed to touch and taste those beautiful curves, the ones he’d stared at innumerable times in that _invigorating_ picture she’d sent him, and it was even better than he’d imagined… 

He wondered if she had any idea what kind of effect that picture would have on him— a guy who hadn’t seen or touched a body like hers in too many years to count… or maybe never: his girl was on a whole ‘nother level, and having her there, laid out on the bed where he could see her, no roommates to worry about, no curfews or rules or worries over propriety— this was nothing like the polite, careful fumblings in the dark that he’d known before, in that other lifetime— this was… it was a fuckin’ wet dream… better than, because it was real… 

He was giving into it, running hot, open-mouthed kisses over the swells of her breasts, and then dipped lower to mouth at the full curves of them through the red lace of the bra, and he could feel the hard little nubs of her nipples through the lace, and he was smiling between the kisses as he could hear her appreciative little moans, and _God_ his cock was gonna explode just from this, and maybe that was what finally got him to slow down and breathe, almost shaking, and he came back to himself and realized he was basically devouring her without even checking in once. 

“Is this okay?” he finally said, his voice husky, and then he dipped back down, took a slow pull on one lace-covered breast, tugging on the nipple through the fabric as his hand caressed and massaged the other one. 

“ _God, yeah_ ,” she said, writhing a little, her hands moving through his hair, scraping her fingertips against his scalp. “Don’t stop.” 

He glanced up, to get the confirmation from her face, and he saw that her eyes were shut and she was smiling, her red lips hanging open to breathe, and he could see and hear the proof of it: that he was making her feel _good_ , and it was everything he wanted… to know he could still do that— make a woman feel good in her body, worthy of whatever kind of worship she wanted from him… 

And there was something else there, too… a feeling he wasn't expecting, or maybe it was the lack of something he'd gotten so used to... that disgust with his own body that'd become such a familiar background to his own identity that he'd taken it as a given— a truth, unchangeable... But being with her like this, feeling the way she wanted him, it was like some kind of antidote to that poison, and for the first time since he’d escaped, he was feeling like maybe it was okay to want this— to feel these things, like maybe he even had a right to it, just like his therapist said... he'd always nodded his head along when she'd tell him that in her gentle voice, just to make her feel like she was helping him, though he'd never really believed it... but now... it was like this girl... this beautiful girl was making him feel like maybe his own longing was something he was allowed to want: something _good_ , something desired... 

He needed to see her bared, to taste her curves, feel the contours of her body on his tongue, and he said, “Can I—,” as he slipped a finger under the top hem of one of the cups, and she smiled and breathed again, and said, " _God, yes_ ," and she was undulating her hips, seeking some kind of friction, even as he'd been trying his best not to be a cad and rub the stiff rod of his dick against her leg. If anything, she seemed to be seeking it out, her hand moving over his hips and trying to come around to the front of his pants, trying to find him, to touch him, and he kept evading her, because he was afraid if she touched him at this point, it would be all over for him... 

“In fact," she was saying, "just assume anything from this point on is a ‘ _yes_ ’…" and now she was squeezing his ass, since he'd denied her access to his front, and she added, " _Major_ green light… _yes_ , Bucky… for God’s sake— _touch me_ …” 

He licked his lips and pulled down on one of the lacy cups, freeing her breast, nudging it out from the confining fabric, and she sighed, a little whimper in her throat, as he sealed over the pretty pink center of it with his mouth, breathing out in a shudder, and then he was pulling on it, over and over, letting his tongue trace around the shape of her nipple, loving the sounds he was drawing out of her, as he tasted the slightly salty sheen of sweat on her, and _fuck_ he was gonna come in his pants… 

He shifted a little, moved one leg between hers, trying to take the pressure off his cock, and he realized she was trying to rub herself against him, her hips rocking her body into his thigh as he laved and sucked at her breast, and she needed more— was making it obvious that she needed _him_ , almost like it was hurting her, and it broke something in him, made him sigh out the words… “ _sweetheart… baby doll_ ,” wanting to take care of her, give her what she needed… 

He was gonna get there, but he wanted to take his time, to savor it— to give her as much as he could, every step of the way… and maybe part of it, part of why he wanted to drag it out, was that he was still pretty nervous about the main event, worried that he wouldn’t last, that he wasn’t gonna measure up to whatever she was used to, and he didn’t want to let her down… _couldn’t_ — not with the way she was moving against him, practically begging him to give it to her… 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft, as he pulled off her breast to look at her for a moment, and she already looked wrecked— her face flushed, her eyes half shut, her hair all spread out beneath her like a mermaid, and he wanted to get that bra all the way off, to unzip and pull her pants down so he could see and touch the rest of her, and he was about to ask if—

 

 

 _ **NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

The alarm hit them both like a bullet to the head, and they sprang apart, panicked, and for a split second he thought he’d done something wrong, until his brain caught up and he realized it was the compound’s emergency alert system kicking in, and then they were both tumbling off the bed, swearing and scrambling for their phones. 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

Bucky’s phone was still in his jeans, while Darcy’s was lying on the sideboard in the entryway where she’d dumped it on the way in, and she had to jump out of the bed and run to get it, instinctively pulling her boob back into her bra as she went. Bucky joined her in the entryway a few seconds later, as she looked up from the pop-up alert on her home screen. 

“It’s just a Level 1,” she said, sounding disgusted, and then looked up to the ceiling and yelled, “ _Shut the **fuck** up you **fucking** cock-block!_” 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

A Level 1 could be anything— something as simple as a kitchen fire (that had actually happened once, when some idiot who didn’t know how to use the toaster oven had walked away from their bagel long enough to set off the smoke alarms), to a potential incoming threat that could quickly escalate to a Level 2 or 3, or even a full facility evac. 

“You all right?” he asked, and he moved in and put a hand on her arm, next to her bicep, smoothing down the sleeve of the shirt that still hung open on either side of her breasts, and he still felt dazed, in spite of the deafening stab of the alarm, part of him still back in the moment where his face had been all over her, inside her scent and the softness of her skin, the taste of her, and he was trying to wake up, to snap out of it… 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

“Yeah, just frazzled,” she said. “That alarm took about a year off my life. For fuck’s sake. Do you have to go?” 

“Probably,” he said, and he let out a loud, frustrated breath. “Gotta wait for instructions. What about you?” 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

“I’m good to just shelter in place unless and until it escalates or gets lifted,” she said. “God, I hope you don’t get called away. We could, uh… shelter in place together.” And then she smiled again, and wagged her eyebrows, and he pulled her body into him, holding her to his chest and kissing the top of her head as his hand smoothed down the back of her hair. 

“God, I hope so too, sweetheart,” he said, but he was tense again, waiting to be disappointed… 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

He was hoping he’d get a break— that having just gotten back from assignment, they’d leave him alone— but not more than a minute later, his phone buzzed loudly, like an angry bee, and he held it up to check it. “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” he said. 

_**NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah NEE-nah…**_

“What is it?” she asked, tilting her face up to look at him with worried eyes. “Something bad?” 

“Probably not,” he said, and then sighed. “But I gotta go. They need another pair of eyes up on the roof.” 

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” she said. She was looking up at the ceiling again, waiting for the alarm cycle to repeat again, but apparently they’d shut it off, now that everyone had gotten their personalized alerts. At least that was one thing the facility was smart about: people tend not to focus well when there’s a fucking doom alarm bleeding your brain out through your ears. 

“S’probably nothin’,” he said. “S’probably gonna be some kinda bullshit, and I’m gettin’ pulled away from you for no reason at all.” 

She pressed herself into his body again, resting her cheek against his chest, as her arms wrapped tightly around him, her fingers digging into his back, like if she squeezed him hard enough, she could will him to be allowed to stay. “We just can’t get a break, can we.” 

He kissed the top of her head again, and then tilted her face back up with his hand so he could look at her, and then he leaned down and kissed her once, slowly, on the mouth. 

“I’ll come back, if it’s not too late,” he said. “No tellin’ how long I’ll be. Stay put. Be safe. No sneakin’ around, goin’ out for snacks or somethin’.” 

“Okay,” she said, and then she smiled, because he already knew her well enough to add that last part. 

“I mean it,” he said. “Don’t do anything dumb. Stay put ’til they give the all-clear.” 

“I will,” she said. “Promise. There’s nowhere I wanna go right now, anyway. All my plans were here with you tonight.” 

“Fuck,” he said, sighing again. “If this turns out to be nothin’, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky had already resigned himself to the job by the time he was positioning himself on the southwest corner of the roof, and he took the few seconds to adjust his radio, pinning the mic a little higher up, before settling back onto his stomach, legs spread wide, the barrel of his rifle pointing into the trees in the distance. 

It was hot as hell up there, even though the sun had gone down, and he was glad he was still in a T-shirt and jeans instead of his full-body blacks. He lifted his trigger hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, and then carefully returned his hand to the grip, the butt of the stock braced firmly against his right shoulder. 

“Kay, I’m in position. What do we got.” 

Barton’s voice crackled back to him in the earpiece. “Security picked up movement to the south. Guy reading the thermal imaging data said probable human, headed this way, but wouldn’t confirm. I been sweepin’ the area, but so far I ain’t seen nothin’.” 

“Just one?” asked Bucky, surprised. 

“Yup. Guess they’re bein’ more cautious ever since that thing with the clown.” 

“Clown?” 

“Oh, right— you were gone for that,” said Barton, but he didn’t elaborate, so Bucky didn’t ask. 

“Well, this better be good,” he grumbled instead. “I’m back for fifteen minutes— fifteen goddamn minutes with my girl— and now I’m on the roof, hotter’n a fuckin’ furnace, prob’ly lyin’ in a pile of pigeon shit…” 

They were both silent for while, as they scanned the trees, looking for any sign of movement. After about five minutes, Barton said, in a conversational tone, “So. You and Lewis, huh?” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” said Bucky, curtly. 

“Nah, you got it wrong,” said Barton. “Just wanted to say… m’glad it’s you. I know you’re not gonna fuck her over. Use her.” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute as he peered through the scope, analyzing the words, trying to determine how much of that was a compliment, and how much a threat. He knew that of anyone on the team, Barton was probably the only one in a position to teach him a lesson, if he thought he needed one. The threat wasn’t idle. He settled on 60/40, threat/compliment. His respect for the man went up a few more notches. 

“It ain’t like that,” he finally said, to confirm it— that Darcy wasn’t just a quick roll in the sack for him. “She’s…” He wasn’t quite sure how to sum up what Darcy was— at least not in a conversation like this. He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought anyway. 

“Movement,” said Barton. “At your 2.” 

“Got it.” Bucky could see it clearly through his scope: a lone figure, creeping up through the woods— poorly, if the guy was actually trying to be inconspicuous. Asshole actually stumbled over a root or a rock, giving away his position to anyone in the general vicinity who didn’t already have a weapon trained on him. 

“This can’t be the guy,” he said, willing it to be true, because he _knew_ security wouldn’t call him out for some stupid hiker lost in the woods, ignoring all the trespassing signs… 

“Lemme get a better visual on—” Barton was saying, and then cut himself off abruptly. “Aw _shit_.” 

“What is it,” said Bucky evenly, his body completely still, his lock on the target never wavering, ready to engage if needed. His finger hovered over the trigger, preparing to squeeze… “We got more?” 

“Naw,” said Barton, and Bucky could hear the frustration in the man’s voice, followed by a sigh. “Naw, I know this guy.” 

“What is he, mercenary?” 

“No,” said Barton. “Photographer.” 

“What?” Bucky lifted his eye away from the scope then, blinked a couple times and looked across the roof to the southeast corner, where he could just make out the shape of Barton in the distance, lying on his stomach, peering through a set of night-vision binoculars. 

“Yeah,” said Barton. “Fuckin’ paparazzi. This guy’s been doggin’ me by my place in Bed-Stuy for months.” 

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” said Bucky. “I got pulled outa bed for—” And then, “Why’d you say, ‘ _oh shit_ ,’ if he ain’t a target. We can shut it down. Pack up. Get security to kick him out.” 

“Cause now we can’t shoot him,” said Barton, matter-of-factly. 

“Says who,” said Bucky, and he peered through the scope again, put his crosshairs squarely on the target. “Asshole deserves to get shot, pullin’ me away from my girl after eight weeks of waitin’.” 

Barton didn’t reply, which meant he didn’t necessarily agree, but that he probably didn’t _disagree_. 

The photographer was still thrashing around in the dark, right at the edge of the south field, maybe a foot into the trees, making all kinds of noise. It looked like he’d dropped something when he’d tripped, and was now trying to find it. What a jackass. Bucky wanted to shoot him just for being so goddamn inept. 

“Would if I could,” said Barton finally. “Asshole tried to mace Lucky last time he caught us outside. And I’m pretty sure he’s the one reported the homeless lady who camps out by the ATM. Not like she was blockin’ it or nothin’. Guy’s a total shit-stain.” 

“Who’s Lucky?” 

“My dog, man. Ain’t you ever— nah, I guess you don’t get out much, do you. I mean, ‘sides for the job…” 

“He tried to mace your dog?” said Bucky, and his hand tightened on the grip. He had to actively resist squeezing the trigger, wanting to at least put one in the trees, just to scare the shit out of the guy. He breathed out, slowly, and said, “Don’t you got all kinds of non-lethal specialty arrows in your rig?” 

“You got any idea how much paperwork that is?” said Barton. “A fuck-up like that? Involving a civilian?” 

Bucky smiled when the man didn’t immediately refuse. “I’ll give you ten bucks if you shoot him in the ass,” he said. “We’re already fucked for paperwork on this tonight as it is. Might as well make it worth it.” 

Barton thought about it for exactly three more seconds and then said, “Yeah, all right.” 

Bucky looked up again from the eyepiece of his scope and across the roof to Barton, who might have been rummaging through a duffel bag, though it was hard to tell in the dark from that distance, the bag blending into the shadows. “You may wanna watch this,” came the words a minute later, through the earpiece. 

“Roger that,” said Bucky. He set the butt of the rifle down and picked up his own NV device, a monocular tube, and peered through it, scanning until he relocated the man in the woods— he’d stopped moving around and was framed nicely, in profile, between a couple of tree-trunks, and Bucky fine-tuned the focus until he had a crisp view of him. 

The guy was messing around with a big camera with an enormous flash mounted to it, and he was wearing the same kind of outfit— fake fashion tac gear— that you’d see on those jackoff photojournalist wannabees who snuck into active war-zones and caused all kinds of trouble trying to make a name for themselves. The ones who thought _they_ were the story, not the fuckin’ citizens havin’ to live through it every day. He even had one of those bullshit khaki vests with the little pockets all over it. 

It was a good thing Barton had recognized him; in the dark, without using some kind of image-enhancer like the tube, the guy’s costume could have been mistaken for real gear— at least enough to get himself shot for real, before things got sorted out. 

All was quiet for a minute— just the sound of crickets chirping— and then Bucky detected the subtle _fwip_ of an arrow being loosed. 

All of a sudden the guy jumped like he’d been hit with a baseball— right in the ass— and Bucky could see his mouth form the words, ‘ _What the fuck_ ,’ as he spun around frantically, trying to figure out what he’d been hit with. 

“What was that?” asked Bucky. 

“Wait for it,” said Barton, and Bucky watched, his tongue gliding back and forth on his lower lip as a cloud began to form around the man— the blunt-tipped arrow had evidently released some kind of gas— and a second later the guy began to shriek and yell, and they could hear him clearly all the way from the roof. 

“ _What the fuck! What the fuck! My eyes!_ ” He’d dropped his camera and was running in circles now, out in the open field, all but waving his arms in the air. Bucky snickered a little as he followed it all through the tube. 

He heard another _fwip_ , and watched as another blunt-tipped arrow hit the guy square in the ass, again. 

“Good shootin’,” said Bucky appreciatively. It’d be hard to hit a target moving that erratically. 

Upon contact with the guy’s ass, the second shot immediately released a large net that had been contained under pressure inside the head of the arrow. The photographer quickly got tangled up in it, falling to the ground and flailing on his back like a overturned beetle. “ _I give up— I give up— God’s sake— no more_ ,” he was shouting. 

“Thanks,” said Bucky. 

“My pleasure,” said Barton. 

<<>>

It was after one in the morning by the time he was finally heading back to residential, too exhausted to even be ticked off any more. They’d had to call out the local cops, who’d taken the guy into custody for trespassing, constructive invasion of privacy, and even stalking, seeing as how Barton had a history of the guy bothering him. 

They’d had to fill out reports for the sheriff’s department, clean up the site, put away all their gear, and then deal with all of the paperwork on their end of things, which was always extra tedious when emergency protocol had been enabled, and finally, at 1:12am, Bucky had handed a rumpled ten-dollar bill to Barton, who’d taken it and stuck it in his pocket with a smile, and they’d waved a tired goodnight to one another and walked off in different directions. 

Bucky smiled sadly at all the missed messages on his phone, scrolling through them as he walked tiredly down the hallway to the room he shared with Steve.

 

_Darcy:  Hey they just lifted the lock-down_

            _Let me know when ur done_

 

_Darcy:  U okay?_

 

_Darcy:  Hey I just heard what happened_

            _Fucking asshole_

            _Can’t believe some stupid fuck-hole_  
            _derailed our reunion makeout session_

            _I hope u shot him in the ass_

 

Bucky smiled at that one.

 

_Darcy:  I can still feel ur mouth on me_

            _Come over if it’s not too late when_  
            _ur all done_

 

And then finally, the last ones, which had come through a little over an hour ago:

 

 _Darcy:  Fuck I hate to say it but I gotta go_  
            _to bed_

            _Can’t believe I gotta work tomorrow_

            _I’d totally call in sick but Jane needs_  
            _me to set up a satellite thingie_

            _U wanna meet me for lunch?_

            _Okay. Anyway, goodnight_

            _I miss u already_

 

He let himself into the apartment quietly, sighed at the view of Steve, passed out on the couch drooling— TV remote still in his hand— and headed back to his own bedroom. He’d been planning to take another shower and jerk off, but in the end he barely managed to unlace and kick off his boots, pull his jeans off, and then crawl onto the bed, collapsing face-down. He was out in a matter of seconds.

<<>>

 

_Bucky:  Hey gorgeous_

            _You at work?_

            _Just woke up_

 

_Darcy:  Yup_

            _Been here since 7_

            _Got a lot of setup for Jane today_

            _But I’m free for lunch_

 

_Bucky:  Sounds good_

            _What time_

 

_Darcy:  11:30?_

            _I don’t wanna eat in the cafeteria_  
            _though_

            _Let’s get it to go and eat outside_  
            _or something_

 

_Bucky:  I’ll come by and pick you up_

 

_Darcy:  K_

            _See u in a bit :)_

 

He had about an hour to get ready, and he took his time, taking a long, hot shower, getting all the dirt and sweat off, and then he tidied his beard a little, and even trimmed and cleaned his fingernails; they’d been in a sorry state for weeks— dirty and ragged— and he was ashamed he hadn’t noticed until now. 

It’d been a long time since Bucky’d taken this much care with his hygiene, and it felt good. _How ‘bout that_ , he thought. _Nothin’ like a little fuckin’ self-respect_ … 

He dressed much as he had the night before, when he’d first gotten back— clean jeans, and a V-neck T-shirt. He didn’t have any decent shoes— he hadn’t seen the point until now—so he just swapped his dirty boots for a clean pair and then took a last look in the mirror before he left, scrubbing his hand over his mouth and then smoothing a stray strand of his long hair back behind his ear. He looked all right. 

He got there a little early and scanned the room for her, but she wasn’t at her desk or anywhere else he could see. Dr. Foster wasn’t around either. It was mostly just techs, clacking away at their keyboards. A few of them glanced up as he made his way over to her desk. 

Her task chair was pulled out, like she’d recently been in it, and he considered sitting in it while he waited for her to come back, but it seemed... too personal somehow. Which made no sense. He’d had his mouth all over her tits the night before and now he was reluctant to sit in her chair? He leaned over, bracing his metal palm on the desk, and looked over the odd little collection of items on it… 

There were little plaques with funny sayings about coffee… or being a ‘ _bitch_ ’— which he didn’t get; she was one of the sweetest people he’d ever talked to. There was a tiny plastic-brick figurine of Thor, complete with a tiny little Mjolnir in its hand, and another figure next to it whom he didn’t recognize, until he realized it was probably meant to be Dr. Foster— like Darcy had custom-made it to keep the other one company. There was a coffee mug he couldn’t figure out: it was white with huge black letters— UNT— a university? Maybe she’d gone to school there… and then he noticed that the handle of the mug was also black, which made it look like the letter ‘C’ if the handle was on the left, which, followed by the ‘ _UNT_ ’ spelled… 

He felt the prickle of eyes on him, from behind, and he looked over his shoulder to see one of the tech guys watching him from a couple desks over. He was a younger guy, good-looking, with fashionable orangish-brown tortoiseshell eyeglass frames, and he was leaning back in his task chair, chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen. 

It felt like the guy had been checking out his ass, by the way his eyes had darted back up to his face as soon as Bucky turned to look— he recognized the tell-tale motion, having been guilty of it himself enough times to know. He turned around fully then, and raised his eyebrows as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He sensed that the kid wanted to say something. 

“She went to the supply closet I think,” the guy finally said. “The Prograf was running low on cyan.” 

He had no idea what that meant, but he just nodded and said, “Thanks, uh…” 

“Dave,” said the guy. 

“Thanks, Dave. Where, uh…” 

“It’s through that door, past the break room,” he said, pointing him toward the opposite end of the room. 

“Thanks,” he said again, and pushed off the desk and started to head off the way the guy had indicated. He was 98% sure his ass was getting eyeballed again, as he walked away. Whatever. Didn’t bother him none. 

He went through the door and there was a short hallway there, with two doorways on the left, and a dead-end with a standard office water-cooler setup. The first room had a doorless entry that led to a mid-sized break area, and he walked past it, ignoring the people inside who glanced up as he went by, and continued on to the second one, which had a door that opened outward and was standing partially ajar. He recognized Darcy’s jangly keys— the ones she’d dropped on the floor, the first time he’d kissed her— sticking out of the knob on the door. 

He pulled the door open the rest of the way, and saw her in there— it wasn’t so much a closet as a little room, about six feet wide and ten feet deep, filled with all kinds of crap stacked on tables and metal shelves, lit by one crummy little light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. 

Darcy was near the back, faced away from the door, bent over almost double, cursing to herself as she rummaged through a huge plastic bin on the floor. She was wearing a cute little A-line skirt: a shower of red roses—green leaves still attached— danced over a black background sprinkled with white polka dots. A white short-sleeved blouse was tucked into it, showing off her hourglass figure, and her feet were in old-fashioned black T-straps with little teardrop cutouts and 4-inch heels. Her legs were completely bare, from what he could see— from where the skirt hit her just above the knee, all the way down to the shoes. 

She was so engaged in whatever she was searching for that she hadn’t even heard the little squeak of the door, the subtle jangle of her keys in the knob, and now he swallowed a little, eyes on that gorgeous rear end and all of that leg, and then he forced himself to stop being a pervert, and knocked lightly on the door to get her attention. “Hey, sweetheart.” 

She shrieked, completely startled, and almost fell back onto her butt, and he moved forward quickly, offering her a hand to help steady her. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” she said, but she was smiling, and let him bring her to him, one arm wrapping around her, and as he pulled her in, she placed both her hands on his chest, and leaned in to smell his shirt. 

“Mmm, you’re so nice and clean,” she said approvingly, and then tilted her head up to look at his face. “Look good, too. You go to the spa this morning or something?” 

He chuckled at her joke. “Nah. Just wanted to look nice for my girl. Least I could do, after leavin’ you high and dry last night.” 

“Well, I was definitely high,” she said, leaving off the unspoken remainder of the sentence as she grinned, and when he figured out what she hadn’t said, he swallowed again and licked his lips as his heart picked up a little. She was going to kill him, with her shameless admissions. He’d never met anyone like her— simultaneously cute and coquettish, but also completely sensual… totally at ease with her body and her appetites. 

“You’re early,” she said then, as her hand came up to feel his beard, and he leaned into it a little, wanting more of her touch, feeling like he was already addicted to it. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Hope that’s okay.” 

“It’s more than okay,” she said, and then she stretched up to try and reach his lips. “Gimme some sugar.” 

His hands automatically went to her hips as he leaned down to kiss her, and the fabric of her skirt bunched up a little as he pulled her closer to him, exposing more of her legs. 

“I like what you got on,” he murmured, as he pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dropping down to take in her outfit again. “You look real pretty.” 

“Yeah?” she said, and she stepped back a little and swiveled back and forth playfully a few times, which made the skirt flare up and out, almost revealing whatever she had going on underneath… “I thought you would. Easy access.” 

“That’s not what I—” 

His words were cut off when she literally jumped on him, and his arms came up instinctively to support her, one wrapping around her back while the other went under her bottom, and she was kissing him, even as she was pushing against him, and he was stepping back clumsily until he banged into the cheap metal doors of some kind of closed shelving unit… 

Her hands were everywhere: moving across his chest, his shoulders, in his hair, pulling on his face as she kissed him, and when he moved his flesh hand from the curve of her ass to her leg, wanting to lift it up a little, he found that her skirt had fallen back, and his hand met the bare skin of her thick, creamy thigh, at which point it felt like most of the blood in his body rushed straight into his cock, and he pulled out of the kiss, needing to catch his breath. 

“We should—” 

“What,” she said, and then she looked to the side and said, “Oh, right. Door,” and dropped down off of him. He’d been about to suggest they get going to lunch, before they started something they couldn’t finish in a supply closet, but she seemed to have other plans. 

She moved the couple of feet to the open door, looked down the corridor once, jiggled her keys out of the knob, and then pulled the door shut. He saw her rotate the little lever on the knob to lock them inside, and when she turned, she caught him adjusting himself through the front pocket of his jeans. She leaned back against the shut door for a second, taking a moment to look him up and down again. 

She was licking her lips, looking at him like he was the tallest drink of water on the hottest day of summer, and the raw thirst on her face stirred him as much as anything else she’d done... 

“What’re you doin’,” he said, but he was almost laughing as he said it. 

“Ravishing you,” she said simply, as she started to slowly strut toward him in the small space, deliberately drawing it out with an exaggerated bounce in her step and swing of her hips, and he realized he was unconsciously backing up, until his ass hit the back of a tall, sturdy table that had stacks of yellow legal pads and wrapped reams of copier paper on it. He wasn’t afraid of her, but something about it felt so predatory that the response was instinctive, even as he fought a smile— powerless to how good it felt— the way she made him feel so… wanted. 

She’d reached him, tossing the keys onto the table, and got right into his space. She wasted no time, laying one little hand right where he’d moved his dick inside his jeans, and she smiled as she stroked it through the fabric, up and down, once… twice… and his metal hand was gripping the fabric of her skirt, squeezing it… 

“What do we have here,” she said teasingly, and he shut his eyes and exhaled, letting her do it. 

It felt so good— he didn’t want her to stop— but… did she really want to do this? Right here? Surrounded by stacks of plastic-wrapped office supplies and the chemical smell of ink and old, dirty metal… 

“Sweetheart…” he said, not opening his eyes. “Baby doll…” 

She squeezed him a little then, and his breath actually shuddered as he tried to control himself. “Yeah?” she whispered, and then she took her hand away and was rucking up his T-shirt, tunneling her hands under it, moving her fingertips over the bare skin of his abs, his chest, and then back down again to where his cock was now straining against the confines of his jeans. 

“I just— I—” He couldn’t figure out how to say it. 

“Oh my God, are you not okay with this or something?” she said suddenly, and she stepped back, looked up at him in concern. “Fuck, I’m so sorry; I thought you were on board with me touching you and—” 

“Sweetheart, no,” he said, and he pulled her back to him, ran his flesh hand down the line of her spine. “I love you touchin’ me. Believe me. _Too_ much. That’s the thing— I… I just… I wanna see all of you… touch all of you, when we…” He blew out a breath as he looked around, raising his eyebrows at the environment. “Don’t want our first time to be in here, pushed up against a dirty table, fightin’ the clock, tryin’ to be quiet…” 

She relaxed then, obviously relieved that she hadn’t mis-read it, and sank back into him, wrapping her arms around his body, and it seemed like she’d just meant to hug him, but then her hands drifted down to grab his ass, like she couldn’t help it. 

“I mean, I’m not gonna lie,” she said. “It actually sounds kinda hot to me, but I get it. I want to see you too. I mean, I can hardly wait ’til I have you all to myself, and there’s no time constraint, and we can be as loud as we want…” 

She’d moved her hands back to his chest, smoothing them up, over his shirt to his shoulders, and down his arms, feeling the contours of him, both metal and flesh, as she continued to babble, and it was like she was putting him under a spell, with the combination of her touch and her words, and he was trying real hard to pay attention… 

“… because I have a feeling I’m gonna be screaming when you finally get inside me after all this buildup, so yeah, maybe not… I mean, not that anyone’s gonna bother us in here; nobody comes in here except for me. Or well, I guess Jane does, but only to make out with Thor, and she’d have to steal my keys— which she can’t, because they’re in here— and Thor’s not here right now anyway, so—” 

He’d stopped listening when she got to the part about ‘ _when you get inside me_ ,’ because it was all he could think about after that, how it was gonna feel to sink his full, hard length into her, and his eyes fell shut, imagining it, his breath picking up, and she was squeezing his ass again, making him sway a little, and finally he opened his eyes and cut off her ramble with a crash of his lips into hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he pulled her roughly up into his arms… 

He felt her bare legs wrap around his waist, the skirt slipping back toward her hips, and he was pretty sure that was just her underwear pressing against his body now, and he spun them around and set her bottom down on the high tabletop, stepping in so that his hips were between her thighs, tugging on the backs of her knees to pull her forward, into him, and when he looked down, he could see that her skirt had been yanked up by the motion, so that most of her underpants were showing, and he just stared, speechless for a moment, like he’d been whacked on the back of the head. 

“Yeah, I know,” she said, misunderstanding his stupefaction. “These are totally not the sexiest ones I have, I promise. You missed the pretty ones, last night. I had these super sexy red ones to match the bra, and you never even got to see them. These are just what I wear to work, because I can’t deal with pulling my panties out of my ass-crack all day long.” 

He was still staring. They were simple, white cotton underpants, and he could see the shadow of her body hair through them, and the outline of her shape— the clear contours of her lips— even the little cut in the middle where the cotton was dipping in slightly, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe for a second. 

He realized, through his stupor, that she’d been apologizing… _apologizing_ — and he said, his voice half gruff, half whisper, “Who said anything about not bein’ sexy? Jesus, doll.” 

And he should have been embarrassed for staring— God, what a pervert— and he ripped his eyes away and thought maybe he should fix her skirt, help make her decent, but then she said, “You can touch me, if you want to.” 

“What?” he said, and he felt like such a cad, like he was some kinda creep, because he wanted to— to touch her there, in this hot, stuffy supply closet, with a bunch of jerks right next door eating nutrition bars and microwave popcorn or whatever the fuck they were doing, probably knowing exactly what was going on, having seen him walk by and knowing she was already in there, and he was kicking himself because she was obviously trying to get him on board and he was acting like some scared kid… 

She pulled his face into hers and kissed him, long and sweet, like she was trying to reassure him, and he supposed that’s exactly what she was doing. 

She pulled back and said, “I want you to.” And he still didn’t make a move, so she picked up his hand— the flesh one— and she moved it to her body, right between her legs, and she pressed it there, so that he was cupping her, right there at the apex of her thighs, and the fabric was so thin he could even feel the spongy texture of her soft curls through it, and she was warm and a little damp and she looked up at him through her eyelashes and repeated it. 

“Touch me.” 

And it seemed incredibly quiet in there all of a sudden, because all he could hear was their breathing, and he moved his metal hand to the back of her neck, at the base of her head, to cradle it as he tilted his face and kissed her, making her whimper a little as he deepened it, and then he finally started to move the hand that was on her body, between her legs, like she wanted— just a soft stroking of her shape through the fabric, and she exhaled into his mouth, responding to even that light feather of a touch… 

And her little sighs and exhales emboldened him, his middle finger pressing in a bit to follow the furrow in between as he moved his hand up and down, trying to remember how to touch a girl the right way— not that he’d had a ton of experience with gettin’ all the way to 3rd base, but he’d had enough to not be _totally_ inept… he hoped… because it’d been such a long goddamned time since he’d has his hand anywhere near a girl’s body like this, and _God_ don’t let him fuck this up and disappoint her… 

The angle was wrong, the bend of his wrist awkward, and he rotated his hand to use his thumb instead, just tracing that line up and down, pausing at the top to circle around a little, and she liked that— her breath picking up, the rhythm of her sighs more uneven— and they weren’t even kissing any more, just breathing against each other, foreheads touching, and her hips started to cant up to meet the stroke of his thumb, and then she pulled her face away and looked him in the eye, her mouth soft and open… 

She let go of him to reach up under the skirt, lifting her butt to peel the underwear away from her body, and he helped her, threading the fabric down the length of her bare legs and then off the ends of her shoes… 

And he knew now that she was bare under the skirt, and inviting him to touch her with nothing in between, and his heart was pounding and his cock was straining and for a moment he thought maybe he _could_ do it: maybe he could just take her right there, unzip and slide into her warmth and he knew it’d be exquisite, even in that shitty, stinky closet… 

“Bucky,” she whispered, bringing him back to reality, and he looked her, and she was like something from a dream, her lips so soft and red, her eyes hooded, and he wished they were in a bed so he could undress her, touch her all over… 

“Where’d you go? You okay?” 

And instead of answering, he picked her up, lifted her off the table, and before he could really think about what he was doing, he was flipping her around, wrapping his metal arm around her midriff to gently lower her feet to the floor, facing away from him, her gorgeous ass propped up on all that leg in the little black T-straps, and she smiled and pushed her backside against him, circling herself right against the stiff rope of his dick as she looked back over her shoulder, and he sucked in a breath… 

He reached his flesh hand under her skirt, felt the soft, bare curve of her ass, and then he moved it around to her front, dipping between her legs, finding her, feeling her, the brush of the curls and then the silky line that divided her lips, and he stroked at it, slowly, his heart pounding into her back, opening her up, feeling her wetness, his middle finger slipping in between, and she made a soft little sound and pressed back into him again as she gripped the edge of the table in front of her… 

He wanted to see her face while he touched her like this, but most of all he wanted to make her feel good, and the angle was better this way, reaching around, and he was stroking her smoothly, his finger sliding easily through her warm folds, and he could feel her, really feel her, all the special secret parts of her, and he didn’t know how he of all people’d earned the goddamn right, but there he was, and he was gonna do his damndest to make it good for her, and her breathing was getting louder, and on his next downstroke he paused, circled her entrance a few times and then pressed up and in, as far as he could go, shuddering an exhale as he did it… 

She was so warm…soft… wet… and his head dropped down into her neck, the curve to her shoulder, kissing her bare skin alongside the edge of her blouse while he moved his finger inside her in a slow rhythm, and she was getting louder— not just her breaths, but the little desperate noises she was making, and _he_ was doing that— drawing them out of her with each stroke— and he could get off just on that… the beautiful sound of her… 

“Is this okay?” he said, finally finding his voice, almost a whisper, like if he spoke too loud it’d break the air, and he wished again that he could see her, look at her face, and he said it: “Wanna see you… sweetheart… look at me…” 

She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him again, her face in profile, her eyes almost shut, her mouth open to breathe, and he pulled his finger out, let it slide slowly up her center and then down again, dipping back in, this time with two fingers instead of one, and she whimpered and pressed back into his dick again, and he exhaled roughly, feeling dizzy with want… 

“This feel good?” he said, his voice low, as he stroked her, curling his fingers inside, needing to know, wanting to make it good for her. “Show me what you want… what you like…” 

“Your thumb,” she whispered. “Use your thumb… on the outside…” 

And she moved her right hand down, placing it over his, finding his thumb, and showed him, placed it next to the little round nub at the top, showed him how to move it, along the delicate cover at the side… 

“Like that,” she said, and let go when he started doing it on his own. “Yeah,” she breathed out. “Just like that…” 

And he figured it out, figured out how to do both, pulsing his fingers inside in a slow, steady rhythm, while his thumb massaged along the side of that little curtain, and he could tell it was good, by the way her breathing got a lot heavier, her moans louder, her body bending and rocking against his metal arm, where it wrapped around her ribcage, supporting her, and she widened her stance a little, stepping out with those cute little shoes, and she was circling her hips, fucking herself on his fingers, her ass bumping into his dick on every few rotations, and she repeated the words, in between her hitched breaths and the little noises that were getting needier, whispering to him, breathing it out— 

“ _Yeah… Bucky… God… just like that… just like that…_ ” 

And fuck if he wasn’t gonna come right along with her, with her talking to him like that, saying his name while she moved on his hand, and he wondered if that’s what was really happening— if she was really gonna come… 

Truth was, he’d never known for sure if he’d actually made any of those other girls come, all those years ago; they’d all been so damn polite, smiling prettily, letting him do his thing, not giving him any direction, making it mostly about him… maybe even pretending, and it’d been nothing like this… 

This was so much better— no doubting what she was feeling, hearing how good he was making it for her, seeing it in her body, the way she was moving, using her words, and he wanted to feel it, wished he could see it— see her face when she came, because something told him she wasn’t gonna hold back, wasn’t gonna worry about how she looked, and he wanted to see it, wanted to feel it, his thoughts spinning back on that same thought, over and over... 

“I wanna feel it,” he said out loud, and his voice sounded desperate… “Wanna feel you when you come…” 

“Don’t stop,” she breathed… “ _Don’t stop_ … I’m close… I’m so close… _Bucky_ …” 

And her breath was shuddering and it was getting faster, more intense, and she was vocalizing on every single exhale, and he could feel it happening… feel her winding up… and—

 _ **BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“Darcy, you in there?” It was a woman’s voice, and she sounded intent, maybe a little frantic. 

They’d both frozen at the rapping on the door— paralyzed like two statues, his fingers still fully seated inside of her, and they both tried not to breathe. 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“Darcy, I _know_ you’re in there! Come on! Are you sneaking YouTube again?” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” whispered Darcy. “ _It’s Jane_ …” 

“Look I’m sorry,” said the voice, raising itself to be heard, “but we have a situation and I need your help. The router for the satellite is down and I need your social skills to yell at the IT guys to fix it, or I’m gonna miss my window!” 

He could hear the woman out there, hear her shoes scuffing on the floor just a few feet away— just a few feet from where he still had two big fingers pushed right into the most intimate part of his girl’s body. 

“ _Darcy!_ ” 

The voice was pleading now. 

“Darcy, _please!_ I know you had a date, but this is important! You can call Barnes and reschedule!” 

“This was important too,” Darcy whispered, in a pouty voice, but Bucky finally let his fingers slip out, gently, and he exhaled heavily and wiped his hand on his jeans. 

Darcy turned her body in his arms and pressed her face into his chest as she slumped into him. “It’s not _fair_ ,” she said. “I was literally ten— no _five_ seconds away from—” She sighed and said, “We must be cursed.” 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“I can _hear_ you in there, Darcy! Are you on the phone or something?” 

Bucky didn’t know what to say. He felt bad they hadn’t been able to finish, but he was also flying high just from the goddamn privilege of even being able to touch her like that… he had the urge to lift his fingers to his face, to see what she smelled like on him, to taste them… 

Darcy was muttering, looking around. “ _Fuck_. Fine. I guess we’re gonna have to take _another_ fucking raincheck…. where are my undies?” And then she turned her head and yelled, “I’ll be right there!” 

They heard the woman on the other side of the door mutter, “I knew it,” and then the sound of her shuffling away. 

“Shit, I guess I dropped ‘em on the floor,” he said, as he bent down to pick them up. “Sorry, doll. I’m guessin’ you’re not gonna want to wear them now…” 

“Yeah, no,” she said. “God only knows what’s been on that floor…” She looked around. “Fuck. I don’t have any pockets or anything. Can you like, stick them in your jeans pocket or something? Smuggle them out for me? I’ll get them back from you later.” 

She was patting herself down now, trying to make it look like she hadn’t just been seconds away from coming apart in the closet— smoothing her shirt, fixing her hair… “You wanna come over tonight?” she said. “When are you done? I’ll make you dinner.” 

“You like to cook?” he asked, and it felt so weird to be having this totally mundane conversation— like he hadn’t just been fucking her with his fingers less than a minute ago, but then maybe this was normal for girls these days; it’s not like he would know… 

He’d heard guys talking about sex in the locker room, but the conversations were never more detailed than, ‘you get some?’ and a ‘yeah,’ and a one-word follow-up— ‘cool,’ if the other guy was being particularly chatty… 

His eyes were roving over her face, which was still flushed, and she looked so beautiful like this, still wrecked from his touch, and he was still a little dazed himself— still lost somewhere in the sensations of touching her, hearing the sound of her needy moans, and he resolved that the next time he touched her like that, it was gonna be in a bed, or least somewhere they didn’t have to worry about being interrupted, so he could position her better, kiss her, see her face while he did it… 

“Fuck, no,” she said, and he was confused for a second, his mind still latched on the way her body had felt around his fingers, so warm and wet, and he’d forgotten he’d even asked her a question. 

“I hate cooking,” she said. “When I said ‘ _make_ ,’ I actually meant heat up a frozen pizza or something.” 

“Works for me,” he said, finally catching up. “I, uh… I should be done around 6:30.” 

“Okay, then,” she said. “It’s a date.” And then, “Fuck, we never even got a chance to eat. Jane better send one of the other minions out to get me something, if I’m gonna miss the rest of my lunch break wrangling IT nerds for her…” 

“I could bring you something,” he said. “What do you want?” 

“Seriously?” she said. “God, you’re the sweetest. C’mere. Gimme a kiss.” 

He gave her the kiss, but he smirked and said, “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that. M’not s’posed to be sweet.” 

She giggled. “Don’t worry. You’re secret’s safe with me.” 

“So what do you want?” 

“Um… bag of Cheetos? Oh— and one of those huge cookies with the fake M&Ms… you know, the super squishy ones that sort of fall apart when you touch them?” 

He shook his head, but he was smiling at her, petting her hair, totally lost in her charms… “Doll, that ain’t food…” 

“Don’t be like that,” she said, and she was stroking his chest through his T-shirt and then she looked up and made a pouty face at him. “You know I love my Cheetos…” 

“I’ll get you your snacks, sweetheart. But you gotta eat somethin’ real, too.” He pulled her closer and gave her another kiss on her lips, and then a peck on the tip of her nose. “Gotta take care of this gorgeous body.” 

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Club sandwich?” 

“Good girl,” he said, smoothing his hands down her sides to her shapely hips, and he frowned as he felt the material slide smoothly over the bare skin beneath. “You sure you’re gonna be all right not wearin’ any underwear for the rest of the day? You want me to swing by your room?” 

“Nah. Nobody’s gonna know. I mean, unless I stand over a draft or something.” And then they were both giggling like a couple of dorks and he was kissing her again, and they were sort of tumbling into the table again… 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“ _Darcy!! For God’s sake!!_ ” 

“Okay, okay,” she called out, and then looked back to his face one more time. “I better go.” 

“I’ll come back with your lunch,” he said, and she watched while he folded up her underpants and shoved them into one of his back jeans pockets. 

“Kay,” she said, sighing. “Well, thanks for the non-lunch date,” she said, and then gave him a sassy grin as she wagged her eyebrows. “I had a swell time.” 

He laughed at that, and then she grabbed her keys off the table, unlocked the knob on the door, and opened it up to see Dr. Foster standing there, literally tapping her toe impatiently on the floor. 

“About time,” she said, crossly. “Come on. We need to hurry.” And then, “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Uh, just ‘Barnes’ is fine,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “And uh… don’t worry about it. Sounds important.” He was embarrassed, his face even heating up a bit, and he ran his hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down, and then realized he was probably running the musky scent of her through his hair. 

“You coming?” asked Darcy. “I gotta lock up.” 

Right,” he said, feeling like an idiot. It didn’t help that he still had a raging boner that was probably obvious to anyone who glanced at his pants for more than half a second. He saw a clipboard sitting on top of a filing cabinet, and considered grabbing it, to hide his business, but he was the Winter Soldier, for fuck’s sake, not some sixteen-year-old kid on the schoolyard. 

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing… how young she made him feel… though he could do without the dumbass part of it… 

They led the way back to the main room, and he followed behind, towering over the two of them, but feeling more and more like a stupid kid, like he'd been busted for making out with his girl behind the bleachers or something, aware that people's eyes were on them as they walked by...

“I’ll be right back with your lunch,” he said, as Darcy stopped by her desk. Dr. Foster was standing by, obviously waiting for him to leave. 

“No rush,” said Darcy, and she glanced down at his crotch and then back up to his face, grinning and biting her lip. “Take all the time you need. Fuck knows _I_ would, if I could…” 

He wanted to kiss her, but felt like literally everyone in the room was staring at them, so he just said, “See ya,” and swiveled around and hightailed it out of there before he was stripped of all his remaining dignity. 

He could hear them talking— Foster’s hushed voice and Darcy’s bold one, receding in the distance as he got further away. 

“ _Were you having sex in there? Oh my God. We are so totally talking about this later, but right now I need you to get on the phone and_ —” 

“ _Yeah, yeah_ ,” said Darcy. “ _I’m on it_.” 

And then Foster said, “ _Okay, you weren’t kidding about his ass_ ,” and Bucky found he couldn’t fight the grin as he slipped out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy's mug:
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/L6caYWw)  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.  
> \--------

Bucky considered going straight back to his room to take care of the problem in his pants, but he figured he’d be a gentleman and prioritize getting his girl’s lunch first, just like he said he would— even though Darcy had clearly implied that she wouldn’t begrudge him a pit-stop first… 

He really was starting to feel like some kind of pervert, walking around with a boner all the time, but he couldn’t help it— just thinking about her legs would do it, or the way her face looked when she smiled, and if that hadn’t been enough, now he had the sound of his name on her lips, at the end of a breathy moan, playing on a loop in his head, along with the memory of her wet heat… 

God, and now he literally had her underpants shoved into the pocket of his jeans, and maybe people could smell her on him— on his fingers, in his hair, and that just completed the picture. Like for the first time since he came back, he was actually living up to his reputation, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. She wasn’t just some notch in his belt; he didn’t want people thinking that way about her, because of some wrong idea they might have about _him_. 

The irony was, she was the one driving this train, and he was just doing his best to keep up. He actually snickered out loud in the line at the cafeteria, thinking about it— how she hadn’t been subtle at all when she’d looked down at the evidence of his hard-on and she’d grinned, standing there by her desk, while he’d squirmed like some 13-year-old kid and had practically tripped over his own legs, getting out of there. What an idiot. 

The guy next to him in line looked over nervously— apparently the Winter Soldier snickering to himself was cause for alarm, like he was about to lose his shit or something. He breathed out, tried not to roll his eyes, and moved on down the line. 

He stopped in front of the case of pre-packaged lunches, grabbed her one of the to-go boxes that had a club sandwich and a side of potato salad in it, took another one for himself, a couple bags of Cheetos, and one of the giant cookies she’d described. On impulse, he grabbed a couple of bananas from the basket by the register, hoping she’d eat one, swiped his card at the pay terminal, and grunted his thanks to the cashier when she handed him his receipt. 

He’d been hoping they’d be able to sneak in a quick lunch together anyway, at her desk or something, but by the time he got back to the labs, neither she nor Dr. Foster was anywhere in sight. Dave was still there though, and he spun around in his task chair while Bucky dumped all the food down on Darcy’s desk, making a frustrated sound when he realized he hadn’t gotten her anything to drink. 

“She’s not here,” said Dave, and Bucky had to resist the urge to say something like, ‘ _No shit, Sherlock_ ,’ and then the kid helpfully added, “She wasn’t getting anywhere on the phone, so she went down to IT personally, to kick some nerd ass.” The guy said it without a hint of irony, as though he himself were not also, quite clearly, a nerd. 

“Wouldn’t mind bein’ a fly on the wall for that,” said Bucky, grinning as he imagined it. 

“I’ve seen it before,” said Dave. “It’s hot.” 

Bucky laughed then— Dave was all right. “You think she’ll be back any time soon?” 

“Doubt it,” said Dave. “Foster went with her, and they were gonna go straight to the server room after, to make sure it actually got sorted out, and they might have to recalibrate the entire system once it reboots. You want me to guard her food for you?” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I was gonna put her sandwich in the fridge for her. You sayin’ it needs guarding?” 

“In this department?” Dave made a scoffing sound. “Anything not nailed down is liable to get pilfered. Nobody even uses the fridge in the break room anymore; not unless you _want_ your stuff to disappear.” 

Bucky checked the time on his phone and sighed. He had to be somewhere else in twenty minutes. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “If you could make sure she gets this stuff, I’d appreciate it.” He took one of the sandwiches and bananas for himself, and left the rest of the food for her. “Thanks.” 

“Any time,” said Dave, grinning around his pen. 

<<>>

He was on the elevator, heading to the gun range with his food, when he realized he still hadn’t washed his hands since he’d had his fingers inside her. He shifted the food to his metal hand and then lifted his index finger hesitantly to his nose, a little bit guiltily, as if he were being watched. Shit, he probably was. There was undoubtedly a camera somewhere up there in the ceiling. He adjusted the motion to make it look like he was just scratching an itch, but not before he got a whiff of her salty, musky smell, and that was enough to wake up his body yet again. Jesus. It was becoming a problem. 

Several hours later, he was working with Wilson to drill the recruits on close-quarters hand-to-hand technique, and by then his hands had been washed a couple of times— but he nevertheless found himself doing the same motion, a few times during class. He’d thought he’d been pretty subtle about it, turning it into a rub of his forehead or a brush against his nose, until he caught Wilson smirking at him like he knew _exactly_ what he was up to, and he scowled at him and kept his hands well away from his face for the rest of the class. 

Finally, at 6:30, they dismissed the recruits, and he got the heck out of there before Wilson could give him any shit. He sent Darcy a quick text to give her an ETA, and then headed back to his place double-time to take a shower and change clothes. He gave himself a quick jerk in the shower, finished cleaning up, threw on the first clean clothes he could find, and was just sitting down on the couch to lace up his boots when Steve came in. 

“You got a date?” he said, as he dumped his gym bag by the door and emptied his pockets. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. 

“You bringin’ her anything?” said Steve. 

“Aw, shit,” he said, and looked up, halfway through the first boot. “I really oughta. I mean, it’s the first time I’m goin’ to her place where it’s like…” 

“Planned,” finished Steve. 

“Yeah.” He leaned over and laced up the other boot. He cursed again. “Ain’t like I can get any flowers around here or nothin’.” 

“Coffee cart might have some chocolate.” 

“Huh. Yeah, maybe.” He pushed up off the couch, scratched the back of his neck and said, “Well, I’m outa here.” 

“I won’t wait up for you,” said Steve, and when Bucky looked at him, he could see him trying not to laugh. 

“Eat me,” said Bucky, as he grabbed his phone, and Steve did laugh then— it was great to see Bucky like this… anxious to go out, telling him to suck it… it was just like old times. 

“Oh, hey— wait,” said Steve, and Bucky turned back, his hand on the door lever. “You, uh… you need some rubbers?” 

“Shit, I didn’t even thinka that,” said Bucky. 

“Hang on a sec,” said Steve, and he disappeared into his bedroom for a minute, and when he came back, he tossed something to Bucky, and he grabbed it neatly out of the air with his metal hand. It was a little square box. 

“They’re, uh… they’re a lot better than they used to be,” said Steve. 

“Thanks,” he said, as he tucked the little box into his back pocket. “Well, I’ll see ya.” 

“See ya,” said Steve, grinning again as Bucky hurried out the door. 

<<>>

The coffee cart didn’t have any chocolates, but they did have some of those scones with the orange glaze that she’d mentioned the day before their first date. He bought all five of them, and the lady put them in a nice cardboard box for him, and gave him a little wink when she handed them over. He had the impression she knew exactly who they were for. 

He made it to her door right on time— three minutes to spare— and she must have heard him coming down the hall, because the door swung inward just as he was reaching up to knock on it, and she was standing there, grinning at him like he was just what she’d been hoping for. The idea that he actually was, was something he was still getting used to. 

“Come on in, handsome,” she said, and swiveled around to lead the way. 

She’d changed out of her work clothes, and when she turned her head to glance back, she caught him looking, his eyes sweeping down and then back up. 

“Yeah, I know I look like a slob.” Before he could protest, she continued: “I wanted to stay all pretty for you but I couldn’t take it anymore— I had to switch over to knits.” 

She’d replaced the white woven shirt with a baggy grey T-shirt, which had such a wide neckline that her bra-straps were showing— purple this time— and instead of the skirt with the roses on it, she now had on some teeny-tiny pink cotton athletic shorts that were cut so high he could almost see the curve of her ass peeking out the bottom. She was barefoot, and he could see that her toenails were painted bright red. 

He unconsciously licked his lips, and he was about to say something about how pretty had nothing to do with the clothes she was wearing and everything to do with the girl in ‘em, when she turned and leaned against the kitchenette counter and looked at the box in his hand. “Whatcha got there?” 

“Oh, uh… it’s for you,” he said. “They’re just from the coffee cart; nothin’ special.” He winced as soon as he’d said it— it’d sounded like he meant she wasn’t worth anything special. Jeez, he was rusty. 

She just smiled at him, though, and said in a playful voice, “Oh really? Hand ‘em over. Let’s see what you got.” 

He gave her the box, and she could probably see what they were through the clear plastic window on the top, but she opened it up anyway and smiled and said, “I see you pay attention. I mean, I already knew that about you, but—” She cut herself off to say, “Hey, did you bring my undies?” 

She took one of the scones out, sniffed it, and then took an enormous bite. 

“Shit, I forgot,” he said. “I, uh… I left them in the locker room. I can go get them, if—” 

“The _locker room?_ ” she said, around a mouthful of food. “What, were you like, passing them around or something?” She looked kind of horrified. 

“What?” he said. “No— see, they fell outa my jeans pocket when I was changing, and I panicked and grabbed ‘em up off the floor, and just tossed ‘em inside the locker, and—” He was scrambling to explain, and it was all true, but it sounded like he was makin’ it up, makin’ excuses… 

She was watching him fumble over the words, and he was so adorable, so earnest, that she finally had mercy on him, moving forward to still him, putting one hand on his chest. 

“Bucky— Bucky, sweetie, it’s okay— I’m just fucking with you. I know you’d never do something like that.” 

He visibly relaxed, shaking his head a little, and she said, “But maybe you should hang onto them.” She giggled as she smoothed a hand down his chest. “You could like, keep ‘em in there, in your locker… pull ‘em out and take a good, deep whiff right before your workout… like it pumps you up.” She was quaking with laughter as she imagined it. “Like, dare anyone to say one fucking word to you about it…” 

She stopped laughing then, and said, “Wow. That so totally should _not_ have made me wet, but it did. Maybe _I’m_ the pervert here.” 

She shrugged off the notion then, like she was fine with it, if it was true, and took another big bite of scone, groaning in an almost filthy way from the taste of it, her eyes fluttering shut briefly, and she was talking with a full mouth again for a few seconds. 

“God, these are so good. You want one? You probably wanna eat real food first, though, right?” She swallowed down the mouthful and got a frustrated look on her face. “Shit, I totally forgot to pre-heat the oven. I should probably do that now, if—” 

She didn’t make it through the sentence, because he’d pulled on her wrist, and then her waist, tugging her into him, and she’d barely had time to lick the crumbs off her lips before he was lifting her up to kiss her, and she practically threw the rest of the scone back onto the counter so she could put her hands on him, smoothing over his shoulders, and down his back, reaching to grab handfuls of his ass, squeezing it as she smiled into his mouth, and then she felt the little box in his pocket, and she hopped down and pulled it out before he could stop her. 

“I see you come prepared,” she said, with a glint in her eye, and then she tossed it onto the counter, next to the abandoned scone. “But we won’t be needing these; I’m on the pill. And disease-free. I’m guessing you are too? Disease-free, I mean— not on the pill.” 

“Uh, yeah,” he said, still trying to catch up, trying not to feel embarrassed about the rubbers. She certainly didn’t seem to be. 

“Three cheers for us,” she said, grinning. “Do you, uh… you need to eat? You still want pizza?” She was looking at him with hungry eyes, and her words were getting a little slow and sleepy, like the anticipation was drugging her, and he was feeling pretty much the same way, staring at her like she was the source of the cure for what ailed him, and he needed to get a dose of it, as soon as possible. 

“Not really,” he said, even though in truth he was starving, and he licked his lips again, as his eyes went to her mouth. “Do you?” 

“Not really,” she said, echoing him, and there was an electricity there— a still, almost stifling heaviness in the air, like the calm before the storm— and he finally broke and just said what was in his head… 

“I want you….” He was breathing it out as he moved his eyes over her face. “Want you so bad…” 

“Works for me,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper, and went in for another kiss, this one mostly just breathing and a tangle of tongues, as she looped her arms around his neck and made it clear she wanted to hop on again. 

He hoisted her up easily, and carried her quickly to the bedroom, knowing the way now, and this time, when he tumbled her onto the bed, she leaned back into her mountain of pillows and looked at him with something predatory in her eyes, and said, “Clothes. Off. Now.” 

He didn’t argue. He stood up again, grabbed the back neckline of his shirt with his metal hand and yanked it off his body in one smooth motion, and threw it to the floor, his eyes never leaving her face. She was just lying there, watching him. 

“You too, doll,” he said, and he was feeling a momentum that was thankfully dissolving his nerves. “Wanna see you.” 

His jeans were low-slung, and she could see the chiseled lines of his Adonis belt, and the trace of dark hair in between, trailing down from his navel to disappear under the band of his boxer briefs, and she didn’t want to miss anything, so she quickly pulled off her T-shirt and shorts while he was bending over to unlace and kick off his boots. 

She was stripped down to her bra and panties now— both of them a satin aubergine— but left them on, leaning back again so that she could enjoy the rest of the show. 

He’d gotten the boots off, along with his socks, and he stood up again and popped the button on his jeans, unzipped, pushed them down and stepped out, kicking them aside, leaving him in his charcoal-grey boxer briefs, which skimmed over his hips and the thick meat of his thighs like a second skin. She could see the hard shape of him easily through the fabric, and she swallowed and said, “Keep going.” 

And he smirked and chuckled a little, maybe a bit self-conscious, with her just lying there watching him, and he ran his hand through his hair, maybe stalling a second, but she just raised her eyebrow at him, like a challenge, so he forged on… 

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of the briefs and pulled them down, the stiff curve of his cock popping back up as soon as he released it, and he bent down to slip them off and shuffle them over to the pile of clothes on the floor. 

He stood up fully again, a little hesitant now, feeling just a little exposed as he stood naked before her, and he instinctively pulled up on his junk a little, adjusting his balls, and then looked at her, like, _Well?_

He could see that her eyes had dropped below the waist, and she made a little strangled sound… her face looked almost distressed, and then he really _was_ feeling self-conscious, because maybe she didn’t like what she saw, and she was shaking her head… 

“Oh my God,” she said. “Get over here. Right now.” 

He went to the end of the bed, bent at the knee to get on it, the mattress dipping under his weight, and crawled his way over to where she’d reclined to watch him in her cute little bra-and-panty set. He almost felt the urge to cover up, like he shouldn’t be lying there with his dick out, next to something so pretty; her eyes were all over him, and she still looked a little stricken. 

“What’s wrong,” he said, but she didn’t answer— just pushed on his chest, and he fell back onto the bed, letting her steer, and then she was finally putting her hands on him, running her fingertips slowly down his chest, dragging down his abs, trailing down the line of hair from his center, her eyes following her own movements, and then one of her hands drifted down to his dick, pulling on it once— just one slow glide straight up the shaft— and it twitched against her, and he shut his eyes for a second, because he almost couldn’t breathe… 

She still wasn’t speaking, and he opened his eyes again to look at her; he couldn’t tell what was going on— her body language was saying _yes_ but her face was still saying _what in the hell_ , and as good as her hands felt on him, he couldn’t just lie there and let her touch him if there was something wrong. He rolled onto his side so he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable, and reached out his hand to stroke down the smooth skin of her arm in a comforting gesture. 

“Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on. I can tell you’re upset about somethin’. You can tell me if—” 

She laughed then— kind of a choked sound— and shook her head again. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just… _God_ , Bucky… I mean, your dick is just so goddamned beautiful, I might actually cry.” 

And he almost laughed at that— she had to be kidding or something— but she blinked at his expression of disbelief and said, “I mean it. You’re beautiful. Not just your dick— although, holy moley, you’re gorgeous— but just… everything.” 

“C’mere,” he said, because he wasn’t really able to process all of that— couldn’t really believe it— but he needed to touch her, to kiss her, and he pulled her into him, and the feel of their skin sliding together— her bare leg pushing between his thighs, the whisper of her belly brushing again him— made it better, and he closed his eyes as he tasted her lips again, and he felt her hand move back down to his dick, pulling on it again… 

“Can you take this off?” he murmured, as his hand smoothed over one of the silky cups of her bra. “It’s real pretty on you, but… I wanna see you. See all of you.” 

She sat up a little, reaching behind her back to unclasp the band, the cups falling forward a little when the tension released, and then she pulled the straps off her shoulders and lifted it away, revealing the full, shapely curves of her breasts, the pretty pink circles of her nipples, and he breathed out a little as he took her in, but before he could touch her, pull her in and kiss them, she’d rolled onto her back to pull her panties off too, shimmying the fabric down and bending her legs to thread them off her feet, and then she flung the tiny scrap to the side, off the bed. 

And then she was completely bare; he could see all of her, and it was almost too much— too much to take in at once, because _fuck_ he’d never seen anything that gorgeous in his life— so he just pulled her back into him so he could feel all of her against him, the softness of her curves, the slide of her skin, the moist heat of her mouth on his, and he didn’t know how long he was going to hold out before he’d have to roll himself over her, fit himself inside and feel her there too, and he reached his hand down to the little triangle of dark hair between her legs, found the cut of her with his finger, stroking her open, getting her ready for him, and she was sighing and moaning and saying his name… “ _Bucky_ ”… and then— 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“Zat you?” she breathed, but he didn’t answer— he was still moving his fingers on her, his lips latched onto her nipple, and she didn’t let up either, her hand still gliding up and down the shaft of his dick, and he was leaking now, and she was already so wet… 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“Dont—” he whispered, “Fuck it… s’prob’ly just Steve, wonderin’ somethin’ stupid like where he left the remote… ignore it…” 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“Fuck's sake,” he said, and they’d both stopped moving, waiting for it ring again. “Fuck _off_ , Rogers. M’not home…” 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

And he was trying to ignore it, willing it to stop, to leave him alone, so he could just have this moment, for _God’s sake_ , and finally it stopped, and he sighed in relief, and they both laughed a little, and then their hands started moving again— 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“ _Fuck_ —” He was starting to get angry. 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“Maybe you should get it,” she said, and she let go of his dick and lay back. “I mean, what if—” 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“Don’t care,” he said, though he’d stopped what he was doing too, just let his head rest against her chest. “They can write me up.” 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

“I ain’t gettin’ called away for another bullshit false-alarm,” he said then, his tone firm, decided. “They can find someone else.” And then he returned his mouth to her breast, where it belonged, sucking on it tenderly, and he hoped that Rogers had finally taken the fuckin’ hint. 

It was quiet for a minute, except for the sound of their breathing, and the noises she was making as he kissed and sucked on her breasts and moved his fingers through her folds down below, and he could see her face this time, how it made her feel when he dipped his fingers inside, her legs falling open, her hips moving against his hand as her breath came heavier, and if not for the underlying stress of waiting for the damn phone to go off again, he’d be in heaven… surrounded by her scent, the taste of her skin, the feel of her hands on him, running down his back as he rolled almost on top of her, and she was tugging on his ass, pulling on him like she needed him… 

He could smell the heady musk of her body, and he was thinking of sliding down between her legs, seeing what she smelled like up close, maybe even what she tasted like— he’d never done that before, but ever since he’d smelled her on his fingers, it’d been on his mind, and he wondered if that was something she would ever— 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

Bucky growled, and let his fingers slide out of her warm, wet body… 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

… got up and went over the the pile of clothes on the floor, rummaged through his discarded jeans… 

_**BZZT BZZT**_

… found his phone, turned the damn thing _off_ , and flung it across the room. 

“There,” he said. “Problem solved.” He dropped back onto the bed and said, “Now where were we?” 

She grinned, biting her lower lip, but instead of letting him crawl over her, she pushed on his chest again, wordlessly, her hand telling him to lie back, and he did it, smiling back up at her as she slung a leg over his body to straddle him, flashing him a glimpse of her pretty pink center, holding herself just above and behind the stiff curve of his dick, and it was a fantastic view, all of her body on display… 

“I think we were right about here,” she said. 

And then she was moving down his legs, and he didn’t know what— 

He almost shouted out loud when she put her hot little mouth on him, without any preamble whatsoever… right on the head of his dick, her tongue coming out to wet it… 

“Ah, _fuck!_ ” 

And he could feel her _smiling_ around him at his reaction, and she grasped the base of him as she worked her lips a few inches down the shaft and back up, pulling on the foreskin a little, sucking in a taste of the loose skin, and then her hand was moving on him too, the motion pulling the foreskin down, exposing the glans completely, and that was her tongue on him again, hot and wet, swirling around the tip, and he made a sound almost like he was in pain as his hips shuddered beneath her… 

She backed off immediately, letting the foreskin slide back up, her lips coming off the end with a filthy smacking sound… 

“Too much, huh?” she said, completely matter-of-fact, as he craned his head up to look at her as best he could after the jolt of it, the shock of her putting her mouth on him like that. 

“I bet that’s really sensitive,” she said. “Full disclosure— I don’t have much experience with guys like you… unsnipped, I mean…” And then she grinned and wagged her eyebrows and said, “But I’m super eager to learn, if you wanna give me a few tips…” And then she sighed as she looked down at his dick again, rock-hard now, leaking and red and moist from her spit, and she said, “God, you’re pretty.” 

Without further ado, she went right back to it, and his head fell back onto the pillow, surrendering to her, and she was more careful this time, going easy on the foreskin, letting it slide on its own, up and down over the glans as her mouth and tongue moved over it, bathing it in a delicious friction of heat and slick and pressure, and he was really glad he’d taken the time to jerk off in the shower or he would’ve already blown it, and missed out on the best goddamned thing he’d ever felt in his life… 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said, almost unable to form words, because the sensation was overwhelming, like he didn’t know whether he was gonna laugh or cry or pass out— maybe all three at once. 

“I can’t even… _fuck_ … don’t know what to tell you— ah, _fuck_ that’s good— I… I don’t— I’ve never… can’t tell you what I like— _ah_ — but what you’re doin’ right now feels— _ah!_ — really fuckin’ good…” 

"Wait, wait, wait,” she said, pulling her lips off the end of his dick with another wet little slurp, and he shuddered again from both the pull of it, and the sudden loss of sensation. 

“Back up the truck,” she was saying, and she was just sitting there, holding his stiff, wet cock in her hand, staring at his face in disbelief. “Are you telling me… I mean— this can’t be… is this your first BJ? _Ever?_ ” 

“Well… yeah,” he said, and he was gonna lose his mind if she didn’t start moving her hand again, or put her mouth back on him, or _something_ , and he shifted his hips a little, but she still didn’t move— it was like his admission had stunned her into a stupor. 

“But how can that be possible?” she asked, and her hand was still just sitting there, unmoving, wrapped around him, and then suddenly she let go, like she’d been burned and said, “Wait, wait, wait,” again. “Bucky… are you a… are you a _virgin?_ Have I been, like… _assaulting_ you this whole time?” 

And he sat up then, because there was no dignity in lying there like that, his dick leaning over petulantly as her face went through all kinds of emotions, one of which he was really hoping wasn’t _horror_ … 

“Sweetheart,” he said, and he pulled her toward him, maneuvered her into his lap, mindful of his dick, which was still begging for her attention, and he said, “You ain’t done nothin’ to me I didn’t like. Woulda told you if you had. And no, I ain’t a virgin. I just never had anyone put their mouth on me like that before. Don’t mean I didn’t _like_ it. Fuck, that’s puttin’ it lightly. Felt fuckin’ incredible.” 

“But… _why?_ I mean, if you…” 

He sighed— he really didn’t want to have a discussion about it, not right now. He just wanted her to go back to touching him, making him feel good. But she seemed genuinely upset and confused, like she’d done something wrong, so he tried to explain it. 

“It wasn’t… back when me and Stevie were kids… we were taught it was… I dunno, _dirty_ or somethin’. Somethin’ that you gotta pay for, or… you know… what guys do with… other guys.” 

“You think getting a BJ is a gay thing?” she asked, clearly shocked. 

“Well, not _anymore_ ,” he said. “I mean, I figured out things are different now, people ain’t so uptight no more… Don’t mean I ever had the occasion, since I got my head back together, to… you know, to… try it out.” 

“Well, we’re gonna change all that,” she said, with a note of determination in her voice. “It’s like, a _mandate_ now…” And she pushed him back down, and was sliding back down his legs, and he was laughing even as his chest was tightening in anticipation and then she said, “I’m gonna give you the best, A-fuckin-plus BJ of my life, because you deserve it, Bucky Barnes. You deserve _all_ the BJs.” 

And he well and truly thought he could just give up and die happy when she put her mouth back on him— surrendering once again to the exquisite feel of it, and the sound of her sweet words, and the knowledge that this wasn’t just a one-off thing, but something she maybe wanted to do for him on the regular, and he couldn’t believe he’d been missing out on this his whole life— what a dumbass— and she was starting to pick up the intensity, if that was even possible, with how good it’d felt from the very first touch of her lips… 

And she was holding his hips down, keeping him steady even as he fought the need to buck up into her, and he knew he was gonna come soon, and he didn’t know what to do— should he warn her? Try to push her off? She seemed to know what she was doing, and she wasn’t showing any sign of backing off— if anything, the opposite— and he didn’t want to come in her mouth, because that just seemed crass, but he didn’t want her to stop, either… 

And he was almost _shivering_ , and he was making sounds he didn’t even know he was capable of, and he didn’t think he’d smiled as much in the entire last _year_ as he had in the last 30 seconds, and he wanted to tell her that, tell her just how goddamned good she was making him feel, but he also had to warn her, tell her he was close, when— 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“ _Bucky! Darcy! Open up!_ ” 

It was Steve. Steve fucking Rogers. Shouting. Right outside her apartment door. 

She’d pulled off of him, and he thought he was truly gonna die this time, from the loss of her mouth, and she was shaking her head, doing a kind of despairing chant, as though she were close to tears: 

“No. Nuh-uh. No _fucking_ way. Not again.” 

“Ignore him,” he said, and he was panting, desperate for her to keep touching him, desperate to finish… “Don’t answer it.” 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“ _Bucky come on! This is serious! You gotta— it’s an **emergency** , you gotta_—” 

_**BOOM BOOM BOOM**_

“ _Bucky come **ON!** That’s an **order!**_ ” 

Darcy was looking at his face, and she actually let go of him and moved away a bit, giving him space, and that’s when he realized he might have been looking a little bit scary, and that pissed him off even more— fuckin’ Rogers makin’ him scare his girl while they were in bed together. 

“Fuck,” he finally said— curt, angry— and then he was moving quickly, shooting out of the bed, grabbing up his jeans and pulling them on briskly, skipping the underpants, and Darcy had a fleeting moment of admiring how hot that was— just six feet of Bucky Barnes in jeans and nothing else— and then he was stomping out to her entryway, and she heard him rip the door open and growl— he actually _growled_ at Steve— “ _I’m gonna fuckin’ murder you_ …” 

<<>>

As soon as she heard Bucky open the door, Darcy scrambled out of bed and rushed to grab a robe from the hook in her closet, putting it on quickly and knotting the belt, and then stood behind the half-open bedroom door, where she could hear them talking in hushed voices. 

“Look,” Steve was saying, “I’m sorry, but they need us— town’s too small; they don’t have enough resources to handle it, and we’re the closest agency that has a full crisis team. It’s a _kid_ , Bucky. Guy’s got a kid, got a gun to his head.” 

“Go,” she said, stepping into view, and they both turned to see her standing there, just outside the bedroom door. She was completely covered in the robe, but Steve still averted his eyes anyway, like the mere suggestion that they might’ve been doin’ the do was enough to make her attire a bit scandalous. 

“Go, Bucky,” she said, repeating it. “They need you.” 

“We gotta go _now_ , Buck,” said Steve. “They’re waitin’ for us.” 

Bucky shut his eyes and breathed out one long sigh. “Give me five minutes.” 

“You’ve got two.” 

<<>>

Back in the room, she sat down on the bed and watched him as he quickly put his shirt back on, put on his socks and his boots, laced them up. 

“M’sorry,” he said, as he did it. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “Go be a hero. I’ll be here, when you get back. I’m not going anywhere— even if it takes eight more weeks of waiting, I’m not going anywhere.” 

He looked up then, breathed out another sigh, and then he came over, and she stood up to kiss him, and he tried to make it count… make it say everything he wasn’t yet able to say out loud… and then he was about to go, when she said, “Wait— your phone…” and he looked around the room, saw it there on the floor where he’d thrown it, and he bent over to pick it up. 

“Call me when you can,” she said. 

She followed him to the door— Steve was still waiting, just outside in the hallway, and he nodded to her. 

“Ready?” he said, and Bucky just started to walk down the hall, by way of answering, and Steve moved to catch up with him. 

“Be safe,” she called, and Bucky turned his head to look at her, pressing his lips together as he held her eyes, and then they were at the end of the hallway, and they turned the corner and were gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the potentially upsetting content that I vaguely warned about at the beginning. I'm sorry. The muse made me do it.  
> \----------  
> Also: Chapter count is bumping up to 10 as I've had to split up two more stupidly-long chapters. (And by stupidly-long I'm talking over 10k, although some of them are still long, at 7-8k--sorry!) Anyway, this means more chapters that don't actually contain one of the "5+1" elements. I guess you'll know them when you see them... No matter what, the +1 will be the final chapter.  
> \----------

 

She took a shower after he left, just to cool her jets, and then pulled on some loose knit pants and a fresh T-shirt, and meandered up to the administrative lounge— they had the best flatscreen— to see if there was any coverage on the local news. 

She wasn’t really supposed to be up there, but maybe word had gotten around that she was dating an Avenger, because nobody said a thing to her when she appeared, or when she joined the group of people who were standing around, staring at the big screen mounted to the wall. 

The news readers were making their usual idiotic observations about the situation, but she was at least able to get the gist of what was happening: 

“ _So what we do know, Lisa, is that the gunman has been confirmed to be the father— that the boy he’s got there— holding hostage there— is his own seven-year-old son. Now, they’ve been trying to reach the mother, but they’ve been unable to locate her, and there is some concern as to her well-being at this time_.” 

“ _And Jerry, we’re now being told that some of the Avengers are on the scene; is that correct?_ ” 

“ _That’s right, Lisa; We’ve gotten reports that Captain America has been seen coordinating with local officers, and that they’ve brought in their own highly-skilled team of hostage negotiators to help find a peaceful solution to this very volatile situation_.” 

“ _Thanks, Jerry. Right now I want to bring in our safety and security expert, Alan Tipper, who’s here on the line, to talk to us a little about what law enforcement will be doing at this time_.” 

Darcy wished they’d just mute it, although the video footage wasn’t any more helpful— they just kept rolling the same five-second clips of a huge sheriff’s department van arriving on the scene, and another of a group of tan-uniformed cops standing around, talking to each other. The clips weren’t even recent; it’d still been light out when they’d been recorded. 

She knew Bucky was out there somewhere, probably lying on a roof, waiting for orders, and she found herself thankful that, as a sniper, he’d be separated from the action— watching it from a safe distance, through the scope of his rifle. 

It was the first time she’d really considered the consequences of dating someone whose job was all about running into dangerous situations, instead of away from them; it’d somehow seemed more abstract before. 

Maybe it was different this time, because he’d gone from being literally naked in her arms, straight into what was potentially an active-shooter situation, and the whiplash was giving her a surge of protectiveness— wanting to know where he was, whether he was safe. 

She also realized, just as quickly, that that kind of expectation was totally unreasonable, and maybe even a little silly. He wasn’t some inexperienced greenhorn; he was Bucky Barnes— former Hydra assassin—a frickin’ super-soldier. He’d be fine. Pissed off, maybe— but fine. 

She wished she’d said something to him before he’d left. Told him she loved him, or at least something sweeter than, ‘ _call me_.’ She hoped he’d at least read between the lines when she’d told him she wasn’t going anywhere. 

They were in some kind of weird in-between: nothing stated, but nothing held back, either… not exactly. It wasn’t like they were hiding their feelings from each other. But the way they kept getting interrupted, right in the heat of the physical part of it, they never got to the _after_ … the cuddling, the glow, the affirmations… they’d never even had the chance to do anything as mundane and comforting as just sit on a couch together, watch TV or something… just be in each other’s company… 

Maybe it would always be this way with him. No way to plan anything, no guarantee of time together. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried dating until now. Maybe it was just too hard, always being pulled away on assignment. But she saw other people doing it, making it work. Well, sort of. She knew some of the female team-members had families, children… though most of Bucky’s colleagues seemed to be loners: career-military types whose family were, for the most part, the people they worked with. 

She stood there watching for another twenty minutes, and then went and made herself one of the horrible coffee-pod drinks at the hospitality station, and took the hot cup back to one of the couches in the lounge and sat down, scrolling through the news feed on her phone to see if she could find any better information. 

And then she was startling awake, at one in the morning— she’d fallen asleep on the couch— but when she checked the TV, there’d been no change. Most of the other people who’d been watching had left the lounge. 

She watched the news for a while, her eyes heavy, and fell back asleep some time after two, her phone still in her hand. 

<<>>

Bucky yawned. He’d been awake too long, and he was fucking hungry. He’d eaten the last of the shitty nutrition bars he’d pocketed on the way to the scene, and they hadn’t even made a dent in his hunger. He shoulda eaten that pizza. No— he wasn’t gonna regret a second of that, even with the way it got cut short… 

It was hot on the roof— even hotter than it’d been up on top of the compound the previous night, and he and Barton had spent a good amount of time arguing with Mason, over the radio, about which of them had the worst end of things. 

Mason contended it was her, as she’d been tasked with the unenviable job of relaying information between all the different agencies, while also acting as a spotter from the ground for the two precision shooters. 

Bucky and Barton had argued that Mason should shut the hell up, because at least she wasn’t sweating like a stuck pig, up on the fucking one-hundred-and-ten-degree roof, which was an improvement over the one-hundred-and-twenty degrees it’d been when they’d first gotten up there, and Mason had finally conceded the point. 

Then the conversation had turned to dissecting the origin of the phrase ‘ _sweating like a stuck pig_ ,’ and how it had nothing to do with livestock— it was actually about smelting; about pig iron— but the ‘ _stuck_ ’ part came from ‘ _ **bleeding** like a stuck pig_’ which actually made sense, but somewhere the two phrases had overlapped, and now they were left with a figure of speech that made no sense whatsoever… 

Bucky usually wasn’t one for so much chatter while he was on duty, but he understood the need some people had for it, to stay emotionally detached, and this time he was grateful for the distraction, because he couldn’t deal with what was going on down on the ground. He’d taken one look at that little kid through his scope and he’d felt something shut down inside. 

The kid was terrified— that much was clear. He’d peed his pants at some point, and for a while you could see the puddle there on the street, right in the middle of the intersection they were standing in, until the lingering heat from the day had mostly dried it up. The man and the kid had eventually sat down on the road together, but the man had never taken the gun away from the kid’s head. When his arm got tired, he just switched hands. 

Bucky knew he could have easily taken the guy out in the one-second interval between one of those hand-switches, but then the kid would have his dad’s brains splattered all over him, and he didn’t know if that was any better of an outcome. 

It wasn’t up to him, anyway; the HNT was doing it strictly by the books, going through all five steps— patiently, thoroughly— which Bucky knew was the right way to do it, but part of him just wanted to march down there and get it done— to release the kid from his nightmare. 

He could do it, if they let him go in there alone— if they didn’t interfere— and if they didn’t mind the guy ending up dead. He could shut it down in five minutes, and that included the time it’d take to get there— disarm him, free the kid, no brain splatters— but HNT wanted the fairy tale. They wanted the guy to give up, surrender, let himself be taken into custody. It was a nice idea. It was gonna take all fucking night. It was already three in the morning, and they’d only made it to step two, and every second was another second of suffering for that poor kid, and with no guarantee of a good outcome. 

He was actually starting to feel tired, which wasn’t like him, and he figured part of it was just that he was so pissed about being dragged away from his girl once again. They didn’t even need him here, if they weren’t willing to do it the way he was good at— the dirty way— and he was thinking about how if this kept on happening, maybe at some point Darcy was just gonna throw her hands up in the air and say, ‘ _You know what? Just forget it… this ain’t gonna work_.’ 

Only she wouldn’t say it like that— that was his own voice talking, and it scared him how clear it was in his head, and he didn’t understand it— it didn’t make any sense for him to be thinking that. When he’d left her room, shoving down his rage as he’d stomped his way to the jet with Steve, he’d realized with surprise that his cheeks were actually sore— a feeling he hadn’t experienced in over seventy years— because he’d been smiling so goddamned much, just in that little time he’d been in her presence. 

Why the fuck would he want to run away from that? 

By four in the morning, Bucky had opted out of conversation over the radio, while Barton and Mason had moved onto a fervent discussion of toilet paper— brands, thicknesses, the so-called ‘double rolls’ (which now seemed to be the baseline— you couldn’t find any that weren’t, so what were they actually doubling?) and of course the age-old argument over the proper way to thread the roll onto the toilet-paper-holder: over-hung? or under-hung… 

The kid was somehow hanging in there, still awake. It made him extremely uneasy, how much Bucky felt like he knew that kid. Knew the head-space he had to be occupying. Just ‘cause he was only seven didn’t mean the kid couldn’t feel it… couldn’t know that maybe staying awake was the only hope he had left. That maybe the other guy would fall asleep first, and then maybe you could organize something. Or maybe, maybe you weren’t gonna get out, and maybe these were your last few hours, and spendin’ them asleep seemed awfully wasteful, even if spendin’ them awake was a nightmare of its own… but even if it was a nightmare, at least you were still _alive_ … nothin’ worse than the fear of falling asleep— fightin’ it— knowing you might not ever wake up again… 

He kept all that stuff—all those memories— locked up tight, only reliving them when he had to, like if he was working on something specific at therapy; or sometimes, against his will, like in the aftermath of a nightmare… but then he’d package them all back up again and put them where they belonged, back in the shadows of his mind, where he didn’t have to feel how scared that guy’d been… 

And maybe that’s why that voice was comin’ up in his head now, that instinct to say, ‘ _You know what_ …,’ just as things were starting to get good, because she was gonna find out the truth, sooner or later, and maybe callin’ it off because of the job would be better than her findin’ out what a true wreck of a man he was, and he didn’t know if he could bear seeing her walk away, not once he got in too deep. 

Shit, who was he kidding… he was already in too deep. 

Just after dawn, the radio burped and he startled awake; he’d actually drifted for a few minutes. Mason was saying, “What’s he doing? You seein’ this? What’s he doing with the jacket?” 

“Can’t see,” said Barton. “Barnes, you got anything?” 

The guy was standing up, pulling the kid up with him, and he was crying— the dad was crying. He was crying and he was muttering something, and Bucky couldn’t make it out through the scope, and the guy was fussing around with something under the kid’s jacket, maybe going for another weapon, and all at once he felt it like a curdle of acid in his throat, that he hadn’t seen it before— how come none of them had seen it? It was only because Mason had said the word out loud— ‘ _jacket_ ’— and Bucky broke his silence for the first time in over an hour: 

“Why the fuck is the kid wearin’ a jacket in the middle of a fuckin’ heat wave?” 

And Barton had just enough time to say, “Aw, _shit_ ,” and then there was a loud _pop_ — like the report of a rifle, or a big balloon popping—followed by a thick cloud of smoke and dust where the target had been standing, and then Bucky knew that the kid was dead. 

<<>>

She’d woken up just before dawn, a horrible cramp in her shoulder and a kink in her neck, and sat up on the couch. Someone had thrown a blanket over her, and she could smell coffee. She blinked and looked up. The TV news was still on— the ticker said it was 5:47am— and a few people were standing around watching it, sipping at steaming to-go cups. 

“Any change?” she asked, and then cleared her throat to get the gravel out of her voice. 

A short, squat, freckled woman with strawberry-blonde hair turned around and said, “Nope. They’re still just sitting there, middle of the intersection. I saw Kathy bring in a couple of Cokes and sandwiches for them about an hour ago. Guy didn’t let her get close, but he took the food. Seems like a good sign.” 

The news had a distant, aerial view of the scene now, and Darcy could just make out a man with short, dark hair sitting on the roadway, smack-dab in the middle of an intersection. It was hard to see, because of the distance, but Darcy knew from the reports that he had a kid there, pulled up into his chest, and was holding a gun on him. Darcy was glad that the view was too far back to see it clearly, and wondered if the kid was aware of the news copter, hovering up above at a safe distance, filming his trauma for a live television audience… 

“Fuckin’ hell,” she said. “Poor kid.” 

The newsreaders came back on the screen— a new team had taken over since she’d fallen asleep— and Darcy yawned and looked away. 

She checked her messages: nothing— and then scrolled through the online news feed again, looking for better information, but nobody had anything about the Avengers’ involvement, or any other developments. They supposedly had a name on the guy now, but were locked down tight on it, while law enforcement searched for the boy’s mother. 

She finally pushed herself up off the couch and stretched, and went to make herself a fresh cup of shitty coffee, her empty stomach growling angrily. She felt bad for Bucky— he’d been stuck out there all night long, probably surviving on protein bars. She hadn’t even fed him dinner, because she’d been so damn eager to jump his bones… 

She couldn’t take _all_ the blame; he’d seemed just as happy to forego food at the time… and she smiled to herself as she remembered the delicious sounds he’d made when she’d put her mouth on him… 

She’d honestly been unprepared for how gorgeous the man had looked without clothes on. She’d suspected, of course, but Boy Howdy, that man was fine. Darcy had never been with anyone who looked like that— someone so… physically gifted, in a number of ways... and who oddly didn’t seem to know it. 

She pressed the button on the Keurig, and she could hear the news readers blathering on with the usual speculative bullshit, and then there was a weird sound— like a single, sharp _pop_ — and the people standing around the flatscreen gasped, and the freckled lady said, “Oh my God…” 

By the time Darcy had scrambled back around to see the screen— her coffee abandoned at the machine— the view had switched to a graphic of the 10-day forecast, the little yellow sun icons pulsing happily away as they proclaimed a continuation of the heat wave. 

“What happened?” she said. “Why’d they cut away?” 

“I think it was a bomb,” said someone in the room. “Maybe under the guy’s shirt?” 

“A _bomb?_ Are you shitting me?” 

The guy who’d spoken before was going to elaborate, but someone else shushed them and said, “They’re coming back on.” The 10-day forecast was still filling the screen, but they could hear the voices of the newsreaders again, talking in the background. 

“ _Okay_ ,” said the male member of the team, “ _And we did see some images there that we did not want to see… A, uh… a very active situation there_.” 

There was a long pause, and then he continued: “ _So, uh… I believe what we have here is, uh, unfortunately, a very tragic end to, uh… the situation we’ve been following_.” 

“Fuck,” breathed Darcy. Some of the women in the room were crying, some of them with their palms over their mouths, as they all stared at the screen, waiting for more information. 

“ _All right, so we are back here live, now_ ,” said the man, as the view switched back to the newsroom, the man and woman in their crisp, conservative suits, wearing their suitably somber expressions. “ _We, uh… we did need to cut away as we did see some images that were very graphic_.” 

“ _Lot of police officers on hand here_ ,” said the female newsreader, stating the obvious, just to have something to say. The inset live feed from the scene was now focusing on a huddle of sheriff’s deputies, standing by one of their cars, their backs to the camera. A number of sirens could be heard in the distance. 

“ _We, uh… we haven’t seen any sign of Captain America or any of the other Avengers_ ,” she continued. “ _It’s unclear at this time why they, uh… why they weren’t a more active presence in this, uh… this unfortunate situation_.” 

“ _We’re gonna take a break_ ,” said the man, “ _but we’ll be back with more live coverage of what has now become a, uh, a very tragic end to a very tense night for the men and women of the sheriff’s department, and, indeed, for all of us watching here and at home_ …” 

The network cut away to an ad for car insurance, and nobody moved to mute it, and Darcy stood there staring at nothing for another few seconds, listening to the people already scrambling to action around her— talk of _controlling the story_ and _prepared statements_ — and then she went and got her coffee out of the Keurig machine, fitted a plastic cap and cardboard sleeve onto it, and silently slipped out of the room. 

It was after six in the morning by the time she was back in her apartment— her alarm would be going off in less than an hour. She didn’t know what to do. She was too keyed up to go back to sleep, but too fucked up and bone-tired to imagine getting ready for work. 

She went into her bedroom— the sheets were still all rumpled up from when she’d last been in there, naked with Bucky, and it made her want to cry for some reason. She set the coffee cup down on her bedside table, switched off the alarm on her phone, plugged it into the charger, and then sat down tiredly on the edge of the mattress. She thought about it for a minute, and then she sent out a quick text: 

 

_Darcy:  Hey Jane I’m taking a sick day_

            _Sorry_

            _I’ll call u later_

 

She put the phone face down on the side table, and then rolled herself up in the bed covers. She could smell a hint of him in there— some unidentifiable combination of soap, boot leather, and man— and then she did cry a little. She hoped he was okay. She thought of trying to call him, but she couldn’t imagine what kind of messy debrief he’d be dealing with in this kind of situation. 

She tried not to think about the kid. 

She tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible, and the images playing through her head weren’t nice ones, so finally she pushed her pillows up at an angle, propped herself up, grabbed her phone, and started scrolling through the news feeds again. 

A lot of people were covering it, national networks having picked up the story once it had become gruesome— the details were still sketchy, but that didn’t stop them from reporting what little information they had, emphasizing that law enforcement had no reason to believe it was any kind of terrorist act. 

It seemed that the man had attached some kind of crude explosive device to himself or to the boy— an anonymous source had claimed it’d been hidden in a jacket— and he’d detonated it shortly after dawn. They’d both been killed instantly. They’d released the name of the man, and now most of the focus was on him— digging up as much as possible from public records and social media. The mother was still missing. She was probably dead. An unnamed source had disclosed that the parents had been going through a nasty divorce… 

It was all too depressing, and after reading the same information from a dozen different sources, her eyes got heavy and she passed out again for a little while. The coffee sat on her side table, untouched. 

<<>>

_45 minutes earlier_ … 

 

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” 

Bucky was pacing the roof, blind, the rage in him like an animal clawing to get out, and if there’d been anyone else up there with him, he would have snarled at them to get back, get away, because he wouldn’t have been able to guarantee their safety… 

Distantly, far back in his head, he could hear the opening lines of the protocol: the steps he was supposed to follow to bring his blood down, regain control, and he ignored it, because he didn’t _want_ to calm down— didn’t want to be okay… 

“Barnes?” It was Mason— still there, on the radio, probably hearing all of it, the sound of him coming unhinged. The crackle of her voice— the concern he could hear in it— just made it worse, and he ripped the earpiece out, tore the mic off his chest, and tossed the unit to the ground as he continued to circle aimlessly, chest heaving, and he could smell the smoke in the air now as the breeze carried it to him… 

There was only one dominant thought now, his brain grabbing onto it like a grappling hook, yanking him back into it, unwilling: _That kid was still alive, ten seconds ago_ , it said. _Ten seconds_. 

He strode back toward his rifle, still resting there on the bipod at the edge of the roof, useless. Sound was gradually filtering back in, like someone inside his head was slowly dialing the volume back up, and he could hear all the sirens approaching, the first-responders getting closer, on their way to confirm that, yes indeed: getting your body blown apart at fucking point-blank range was lethal, and he thought, _what’s the fuckin’ point, why’re you comin’ in now, the kid’s dead_ , and he yanked up his rifle and he hurled it as hard as he could across the roof… 

<<>>

Steve’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t really seeing— he’d been watching on the monitor, like everyone else who’d been holding steady at the command post all night, waiting for any updates or instructions from the HNT. The PR team were probably already shitting themselves, scrambling for the best way to handle the story, and the inevitable questions from reporters who wouldn’t understand any of the decisions that’d been made throughout the night, or why the Avengers couldn’t have just blazed in there and shut it down… 

Steve wasn’t thinking about any of that. He was thinking about the kid, and wondering if he had any other family, wondering if the mother was still out there somewhere, or if she, too, was dead… 

The view was still obscured by the drift of residual smoke, and that was a blessing at least, so he didn’t have to see… and before that could change, he reached up and clicked the screen off. He didn’t want to turn around, to see anyone else’s face, because he knew they were all feeling the same thing— all of them probably, in their own way, running through the _could haves_ and the _should haves_ and the pointless _what ifs_ … 

“Hey, uh… Cap?” It was Barton, coming in over comms. “Think you better get to the roof. Looks like Barnes is about to lose it…” 

<<>>

He was still pacing, the blood pumping through him like acid, driving him toward a collision with nothing, and then he stopped, looked behind him, toward the other edge of the roof in the distance. He blew out a long breath… and then he turned and strode purposefully, picking up speed to a jog, and then a tight sprint, and when he reached the edge he kept going… 

<<>>

“Aw, _shit_ —” It was Barton again— “He just ran straight off the fuckin’ roof...” 

That snapped Steve out of it, and he blinked and put his finger to his ear— an unnecessary but instinctive move, to make sure the earpiece was seated; that he was hearing correctly. “Say again?” He could feel the bile rise in his throat, his pulse increasing with the flood of adrenaline. “Barton, _say again_ —” 

“Hang on, hang on— I got him; I see him— he’s goin’ down, usin’ the roofs… looks all right; movin’ fast… he’s on some kinda tear, though, Cap; you better get over here… he’s not responding— think he may have ditched his radio… n’fact… shit, he left _all_ his gear behind; I can see it from here…” 

Steve was seeing it in his head: seeing Bucky running away again, and he wanted to punch something. _God_ , Buck— _no_ … not again. _Don’t make me come after you again_. He’d been hoping things would be different now… now that he was trying this thing with Darcy… he’d _seemed_ different… lighter… happier— although not so much when Steve had pulled him out of her bed the night before… 

He’d tried to apologize again as they’d headed to the jet, but Bucky had just turned to stone, shutting it all down to focus on the work, which was why he got called up for duty so much— he was so damn good at his job. 

“Cap? You comin’?” 

“Yeah,” he said, finally acknowledging Barton, and he stood up, put on his helmet, pulled his gloves back on, and picked up his shield. “I’m on it.” 

<<>>

He’d been ready to go in swinging— to bring him in by force, if need be— but it didn’t come to a fight. That was probably the sole positive in this entire sad, fucked-up tragedy of an assignment. 

The local cops had already set up a wide perimeter, to keep the media away, and roped off the scene itself with yellow tape, but Bucky had either talked or forced his way in, or maybe he’d simply gotten there first and had refused to move— not like anyone on the local force was gonna engage him, if they could avoid it. 

Steve nodded his thanks to the officer in charge of access, who pushed down the tape so he could step over, and then he walked slowly around the edge of the scene, keeping his eyes off the hastily-erected privacy screen in the center of the intersection, and the various blue tarps scattered around. 

The air still reeked of smoke—like a barbecue, but thicker: you could almost taste it— bitter, full of blood, and the familiar, cloying odor of burnt flesh. 

Bucky was a motionless figure in black, sitting on the sidewalk at the edge of the scene. His head was bowed down, long hair hiding most of his face, his legs stretched out into the street. He might have been a bum, sleeping upright on the curb, if not for the tac vest and the nice boots. He was holding something in his hand. 

A huddle of cops and paramedics and firemen stood nearby, just on the other side of the tape, keeping a safe distance between themselves and the Winter Soldier. They looked relieved to see Captain America coming their way, and one of the firemen approached him and held out his hand and said, “Thanks for comin’.” 

Steve hefted his shield and swung it around to his back, snapping it in place, and then nodded to the man and shook his hand. “He, uh… he’s not givin’ anyone any trouble, is he?” 

“No, sir,” said the fireman. “Just been sittin’ there. But uh… we need the uh… he won’t let us take—” 

“It’s okay,” said Steve. “I got it. Just give me a couple minutes.” 

“Thanks, Cap,” said the man, and he went back to the group of men and women standing by, there to help protect the scene until the CS unit showed up. Steve took a moment to exhale, and then he walked over to his friend. 

He pulled off his helmet, could feel his hair sticking out in all directions, and he ran his hand through it as he lowered himself down to the curb, right next to Bucky, who hadn’t moved or made any acknowledgment that he was there. 

“What you got there, pal,” said Steve finally, though he could see well enough for himself what Bucky was holding onto. It was a little blue shoe. The velcro strap on it was still closed, and there was some kind of green character on the side— maybe a dinosaur. 

Bucky didn’t speak for a minute, and Steve was patient, waiting him out. The sun was pretty much up now, and you could already feel it was going to be another brutally hot day, the air already thick with humidity. Down at the other end of the sidewalk, a good-looking orange-and-white striped tomcat stretched his front legs out as he yawned, sat up and itched at his ear with his hind leg for a second, and then trotted off back the other way. 

“Shoulda stopped him,” Bucky finally said, and his voice was rough, like he had something stuck in his throat. “Shoulda seen—” 

“No,” said Steve. “You did everything right. Kept your cool, followed orders—” 

“M’losin’ my focus,” said Bucky, interrupting, his voice dropping lower. “Shoulda noticed that jacket, shoulda seen things weren’t right. Don’t know why I didn’t notice—” 

Steve kept his mouth shut, though he had a pretty good idea where this was headed. 

“M’losin’ my focus,” he repeated. “‘Cause my mind’s not in the damn field. It’s on _her_ , goddammit, and it’s fuckin’ up my—” 

“You know that ain’t true,” said Steve. “If that were true, you know at least eight different guys woulda filed a complaint by now… and that’s just countin’ the ones who have it in for you.” 

Bucky had nothing to say to that, and Steve pressed it. 

“Kathy’s already takin’ the blame— cryin’ over the radio, sayin’ she’s gonna resign. Try to take the pressure off the team. And I hope that don’t happen, because she’s real good at what she does. We all shoulda noticed, Buck. We all screwed up. Hernandez— she was sayin’ her kids, they wear all kinds’a weird shit all the time, in whatever kinda weather. She never thought twice about it. If the guy’d been the one wearin’ the jacket, we woulda been all over it.” 

“The Solider don’t make those kinda distinctions,” said Bucky. “Shoulda noticed.” 

“You ain’t him,” said Steve, and after a moment, he added, “That’s a good thing.” 

“Not for the kid, it ain’t,” said Bucky, and he turned his head to the side, away from Steve, blew out a tight breath. 

“Buck,” said Steve, a little more gently now. “It ain’t about you.” He sighed, then, and decided to just say it. “Don’t make this— don’t use it to— _goddammit_ , Buck.” 

They didn’t talk like this much— didn’t get into the feelings and all that; that’s what therapy was for— but this was important… and he wasn’t gonna let him fuck it up on some stupid lie he was trying to make himself believe. 

“She’s good for you, Buck. I know it. _You_ know it. And this… yeah. This is fucked up. But it ain’t about you, and it sure as hell ain’t about Darcy. And you’re gonna stand up, and you’re gonna go give that shoe to the first responders over there, so they can do their jobs, and then we’re gonna go get your gear and we’re gonna go home.” 

After another minute he said, “That’s an order, Barnes.” 

And Bucky finally pushed up, and breathed out a long, heavy sigh, eyes closed for a minute, and it seemed like equal parts fortification and surrender, and then Steve watched as he walked over to the group of cops and firemen. He offered the little shoe to them, and he said something Steve couldn’t hear… and one of the firemen actually reached out and put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve just sighed, and he felt so tired… 

<<>>

“You comin’?” 

They’d landed and everyone else had already gone to stow their gear and clean up and get to the debrief and the inevitable reams of miserable paperwork, but Bucky had just wandered off, in the opposite direction, toward the other side of the property, trying to put distance between himself and anyone who might be inclined to meddle, though Steve had followed him at a distance. 

After a time Bucky came to a stop and just stood there, staring off into the trees. 

It was late morning, the sun already beating down, but it felt like they should be getting ready for bed, because they’d been at it for so long, and Steve knew, as well as he knew his own body, that more than anything, Bucky just needed to rest. 

He repeated it. “Buck, you comin’?” 

“Not yet,” said Bucky, and then he sat down, without turning around, and almost fell over a little, stopping himself with his arm, leaning over on it. He looked like a painting— something Steve had seen hanging on the wall at MoMA; something familiar about the way he was sitting there in the grass, faced away, his hair blowing in the gentle breeze… like there was an inherent sadness about it— and Steve wished there were something more he could do. But he also knew that anything more would just backfire. 

“Do me a favor?” said Bucky, and he was still facing away. “Stow my shit for me? I’ll, uh… I’ll be in, in a bit.” 

“You got it,” said Steve, making it sound like no big deal, even though nobody ever touched Bucky’s gear, not even Steve, and he was going to say something else— was going to suggest he call Darcy and let her know he was okay. But Bucky wasn’t his kid or his patient and he wasn’t really okay, anyway, and they both knew that. Instead he just said, “You want me to tell her anything?” 

Bucky was quiet a minute, and Steve thought he wasn’t going to answer at all, but finally he just said, “Tell her I’ll call her later.” 

<<>>

She woke up when she heard a light but persistent knocking on the door to her apartment. She was scrambling out of bed, uncaring how rumpled she looked, how sleep-bedraggled her hair— she was going to pull him back into bed, take off his boots, and just wrap her arms around him and sleep… 

She swung open the door and Steve Rogers was standing there, and he was looking down at his hands, and for a second her heart stopped, because it felt eerily like one of those movie scenes where the police show up at the door, hats in hand, and you know nothing good is going to come out of their mouths… 

“Is he okay?” she blurted out. “Where is he?” 

“He’s fine,” Steve said quickly, and then amended it, saying, “Well, I mean, he’s not fine… but he’s not hurt or anything.” 

She didn’t really understand what he was doing there, but she stepped back, her body language inviting him to come in, and he followed her over to the counter, and sat down heavily on the barstool she pulled out for him. The box of scones was still sitting there, along with the little square packet of condoms she’d found in Bucky’s pocket. It seemed like a million years ago. 

It was a little weird; she’d seen Steve around plenty of times, had exchanged a word here and there, mostly as part of a group, but now he was sitting in her apartment, like they knew each other— like they were friends. Apparently the fact that they both cared about Bucky was enough to just skip the preliminaries. 

“You want a scone?” she asked, pushing the pastry box over to him. “Bet you’re hungry.” 

“Thanks, Darcy,” he said, and he opened up the box and took out a scone, but he didn’t take a bite of it— just held it in his hands, looking down at his lap. 

“What happened,” she finally asked. “I saw on the news— were you guys there? Were you— did you see it happen?” 

“Yeah,” he said, breathing out a heavy sigh. “We were all watchin’ it on the monitor. Buck— he and Barton were up on top of some buildings nearby… probably saw it through his scope. He was… well, he was pretty upset. Angry.” 

“Because he couldn’t stop it?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “He, uh… he thought he shoulda noticed the jacket— kid had a jacket on.” 

“In this heat?” she asked, and Steve made a rueful noise as he smiled a little, just a sad little tug at the corner of his mouth. 

“Exactly,” he said. “Only none of us noticed that. Not a single goddamned one of us. Until Bucky did, about a second before—” 

“Fuck,” she said, shoulders slumping. “Where is he? Is he okay?” 

“He’s outside,” said Steve, and she was standing from her stool, but Steve stopped her, putting his hand out. “Not out in the hallway,” he clarified. “Out, uh… out on the grounds somewhere. Wanted to be alone for a while.” 

“Oh,” she said, sitting back down. 

“Said he’d call you later,” he added, wishing he could give her more, reassure her— but that’d make him a liar. 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Sometimes he just… he needs some time. I’ll be checkin’ in on him throughout the day, and if he— if I don’t hear back from him, I’ll be goin’ out to get him. Might want your help, if that happens. He might, uh… he might respond better to you; I don’t know.” 

“Sure, of course,” she said. “Whatever he needs.” 

“All right,” he said, and he stood up then, still holding the scone. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for…” He was kind of gesturing with it, like he was talking about the pastry, but then he stopped. 

Somehow, big strong Steve Rogers looked like he needed a hug more than just about anyone she’d ever seen, and she instinctively said, “C’mere,” and stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his thick body, giving him a little squeeze as she did it. He didn’t stiffen or hesitate, but accepted the hug right away, wrapping his own arms around her, holding her with one hand and the wrist of the one that was still hanging onto the pastry, his head dipped down into her hair. 

“Thanks, Darcy,” he said, and then he started to say,“I’m glad he—” but then he stopped, let out a breath and changed what he was going to say, still talking into her hair. “Don’t let him push you away.” 

She hadn’t realized that was something she needed to worry about, and the way Steve had said it made her wonder what sort of condition he was in. She wanted to go find him, see for herself. But Steve knew him better— had known him his whole life, and she needed to trust his judgement… to give Bucky some space, if that’s what he needed most right now. 

“Is he okay?” she asked again, needing some kind of reassurance. 

“He will be,” said Steve. He’d pulled out of the hug and was looking down at the scone. He’d said it like it was something he wanted to believe, not something he knew to be true. 

He looked up, saw the worry on her face, and his own expression softened. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said, and he reached out to squeeze her arm gently. “Hey, why don’t give me your number. I’ll call you as soon as… well, if anything changes.” 

She pulled it up on her screen and showed it to him, so that he could add it to his contacts, and then he sent her a text right away, so she’d have his. 

“Well, I better get to it,” he said, after he clicked his phone off and stuck it back into his pocket. “Lotta paperwork.” 

He paused in her doorway on the way out, turned back to look at her. “You’re good for him, you know.” This time there wasn’t any doubt in his voice, no attempt to convince himself it was true. 

And then he gave her a nod, and turned and walked away, leaving her alone with all of that to think about, and no real answers, other than a surge of feeling, a certainty of where she stood, and a commitment to be there for him, in whatever way he needed. 

She wondered if she should text him… something like, “ _I’m here if you need me_ ,” or even, “ _I love you_ ,” both of which were true, but felt manipulative on some level, like she was somehow the one needing a response, needing reassurance— and in the end she just crawled back into bed, pulled up the covers, and waited for the phone to ring.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Steve took a break from the paperwork to send Bucky another text— the third that morning, each of them forty-five minutes apart. He knew it was probably irritating, but that was something they’d agreed upon a while back, for situations like this— an acceptable way for Steve to check in, without being overly intrusive. If Bucky didn’t respond, then Steve would go find him. That was the deal. 

 

_Steve:  Still doin ok?_

 

_Bucky:  Fine_

 

And it was always short like that, no real information, but that was okay. It was just a check-in, not a heart-to-heart. 

They did two more of those, and by then it was after lunchtime, and Buck hadn’t come in for food yet— probably hadn’t eaten since the night before, and Steve brought it up: 

 

_Steve:  Aint you hungry_

 

_Bucky:  No_

 

_Steve:  I could bring somethin down_

           _Or have Darcy bring you somethin_

 

_Bucky:  No_

 

_Steve:  You call her yet?_

 

_Bucky:  No_

 

_Steve:  Think maybe you oughta?_

           _I know she’s worried about you_

           _Why don’t you let her bring you_  
           _something_

 

_Bucky:  No_

             _Don’t want her seein me like this_

 

_Steve:  Like what_

           _Havin feelings?_

           _Think she already knows you got those_

           _Think that’s one of the reasons she_  
           _likes you_

 

_Bucky:  Leave it alone_

 

_Steve:  Okay_

 

The next time he texted, there was no response. He waited a few minutes and tried again. Nothing. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but Steve still leaned back in his chair, sighing as he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. 

“Shit,” he said, tiredly, and then he pulled up Darcy’s number, sent her a quick text, and then pushed out of the chair and headed to the elevators. 

<<>>

“Buck. Bucky. Hey, pal.” 

Bucky was lying down on his back in a field of clover, on the far side of the compound grounds. There were honeybees swirling around, alighting on the little white flowers poking out of the clover he lay in, but he was oblivious to their presence. He was staring up at the clouds, hair fanned out beneath him, his lips slightly parted. They could see him breathing, but he was completely unresponsive. It was like he’d slipped into a vegetative state. 

“Bucky.” Steve was shaking his shoulder now, trying to get him to respond just by irritating the shit out of him. It wasn’t working. 

“Why don’t you… maybe give it a try,” he said to Darcy, and he pushed up and walked a few steps away, hands on his hips, watching out of the corner of his eye while Darcy moved in, leaning over his friend’s motionless body, her long hair hanging down around them like a curtain. 

He was nervous: knowing, on the one hand, that Bucky would be furious with him— furious for his bringing her here, letting her see him like this. 

He also knew that it was one-hundred-percent the right thing to do. Even just for _her_ sake, so that she would know. Since apparently Bucky hadn’t planned on talking to her about any of this any time soon, even though he’d been planning to sleep with the girl, or maybe already had, and maybe that was none of Steve’s business, but… 

“Bucky,” she said softly, and her hand hovered next to his jaw, a few inches away— she wanted to touch him, but it felt invasive, even though Steve had just been shaking his shoulder pretty aggressively. “Bucky, honey, can you hear me?” 

His eyes weren’t responding to the words at all— he was still just staring straight up into the clouds, his face completely slack. 

Darcy twisted around to look up at Steve, shielding her eyes from the sun. It was hot out. Probably in the mid-nineties, and with the humidity, and not much of a breeze, it was stifling— like being in a sauna. Bucky had to be sweltering, still in his jeans and his tac vest and his big heavy boots, and he was probably getting sunburn on his face, if super-soldiers were susceptible to that sort of thing. 

If he was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. If not for his total lack of responsiveness, she would have said that he almost seemed peaceful. Except that he wasn’t— there was something undeniably _sad_ about his emotionless expression, and it was heartbreaking. She could tell that Steve felt it too, and she was realizing— by everything he’d said to her earlier, and by the way he was acting— that he’d probably experienced it many times. 

“What do we do?” she asked him. “Does he have, like, a doctor or something? What do you… I mean, what do you usually do if he doesn’t…” 

“Doctor won’t help,” he said. “I mean, we got protocols, things he’s worked on that he can do beforehand, if he feels like it, but…” He sighed. “Don’t think he was fightin’ it at all, this time. I shoulda made him come in; I shoulda—” 

He realized he sounded just like Bucky— blaming himself, focusing on the ‘ _should have_ ’ instead of on what to do _now_ , and that Darcy was still waiting for an answer. 

“If I have to, I’ll pick him up and carry him in,” he said. “Clean him up, put him to bed. Sometimes a shower’s enough, but usually he’s gotta sleep. He’ll feel better if he can sleep it off.” 

“Like a migraine,” she said. 

“Yeah, sorta,” said Steve, and he found that he liked the comparison— that she’d chosen something like that to relate it to, because it lacked judgement. His hope for her sticking around went up one tiny notch. 

“But he hates it,” he continued. “Hates when I gotta carry him. ‘Specially in a situation like this, where people might see…” 

She frowned and turned back to look down at him again, and she decided to just go for it: to touch him and try to break through to him; to let him both hear her and feel her… give him some more sensory guideposts. 

“Bucky,” she began again, and as she leaned over him, she reached down and picked up his flesh hand. It was warm but heavy, like he was asleep— it would have dropped straight to the ground like a dead weight, if she’d let go of it. 

“It’s Darcy,” she said. “Can you hear me? Sweetie, can you hear me? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” 

And she sucked in a little breath, because she felt it— just the slightest little twitch of his pinkie finger. Maybe a coincidence. 

Maybe not. 

“I felt that,” she said, and she squeezed him back, and then she moved her other hand carefully, tentatively, to his cheek, let it rest softly against the prickly hair of his beard… just stayed there a moment, letting him feel her hand on his face. 

“You feel that? You feel me touching you?” 

Again, the little twitch, and she smiled and breathed out. “He can hear me,” she said, twisting back again to look at Steve. “He understands.” 

Steve nodded to her, an encouraging look, and she turned back and moved the hand on his face a little, feeling the scrape of his beard against it, and then she took a chance and leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on his lips. He didn’t kiss her back— it was like kissing someone in a fairy tale, someone under a witch’s spell— but when she pulled back to look at him, his eyes had moved. They were no longer staring up at the clouds. They were looking at _her_. 

“Hi,” she said, and she didn’t want to cry, so she pulled the tears back inside and just smiled at him instead, still stroking her hand against the scruff of his beard. 

“Hi,” he said softly, and she could hear Steve sigh, behind her, a relieved sound. 

“So we should go inside,” she said to Bucky, without any condescension— as though they’d just been lying out there together, having a conversation this whole time— like there was nothing unusual going on. “It’s hotter than fuck out here.” 

He just looked at her for a minute, his eyes going back and forth as he gazed at hers, and then he sat up slowly— just lifted his torso up, like someone in a vampire movie sitting up in a coffin, his legs still outstretched. 

“How long have I been out here?” he said. 

She reached up to pull some brown pieces of grass out of his hair. “Don’t know. A while.” 

“Few hours,” said Steve. “At least.” 

“Shit,” he said, and then he turned his head to look at her again. “M’sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “C’mon. Let’s go inside. I took the day off; we can totally nap the day away if you want, but we can do better than ninety-eight fucking degrees and bugs and shit crawling all over us.” 

“Okay,” he said, and he didn’t laugh at her joke, like he might’ve another time, but it was like he was waking up finally, and when she stood up and held out her hand, he took it, pushed himself up, and then walked slowly with her, side-by-side, back to the compound, Steve following a few paces behind. 

<<>>

She’d thought that was the end of the episode, but he had a couple of after-shocks— one in the shower, and another one later that night. 

They’d walked with him back to his and Steve’s room, and it was like he was awake but not— almost like he was sleepwalking, only vaguely aware of what was going on around him— but he’d allowed Steve to steer him into the bathroom, and Darcy had hung back while Steve helped him strip down and get into the shower, and then they’d left him alone, at his insistence, letting him get cleaned up. But then he was in there too long, and when Steve had gone in to check, she heard him swear. 

“Hey Darcy? You wanna, uh… you wanna help me out in here?” 

“Sure,” she said, and she pushed the door open, and she could see that Bucky was lying down on his side in the tub, the shower still pounding down on him, the water gone almost cold. His eyes were blank again, just like before. 

“Shit,” she said, softly. It hurt to look at him. “What can I do?” 

Steve was already leaning into the tub, lifting Bucky’s body up by the armpits, and then he pressed the lever on the valve to shut the water off. “Could you grab one of those big towels?” 

“Sure.” 

Steve managed to lift him up all the way, and it was like he was hefting a giant rag doll, but he got him over the lip of the tub and held him up while Darcy wrapped the big towel around his body. 

“He’s cold,” she said. 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “He’ll be okay. C’mon, let’s get him into bed.” 

Steve had Bucky’s metal arm pulled straight across the back of his broad shoulders, and if she hadn’t known any better, she would have just thought Bucky’d passed out drunk, and that Steve was helping him get to bed. His other arm was wrapped around Bucky’s waist, and he was lifting him up, so that just his toes were dragging along against the floor. 

When they reached his bed, Steve turned around and lowered him down on his back, ducking out from under the arm, and then lifted his legs up onto the mattress. 

He still had the towel partially wrapped around him, and they just left it, and Darcy pulled the covers up over him. His eyes were shut now, and he was breathing shallowly. 

“Will he sleep now?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably. Maybe for the rest of the day… maybe ’til tomorrow morning.” He was exiting the bedroom, and she followed him, closing Bucky’s door partway. 

“Should I stay?” she asked. She wanted to. She wanted to climb into bed with him, to hold him, but she wasn’t sure if it was appropriate— if Bucky would even want her there, or what Steve would think of that. 

“Up to you,” said Steve, surprising her, and then he said, “You know, maybe you should. I still gotta finish up all these reports. If you could—” 

“It’s fine,” she said. “Go do what you need to do. I can keep an eye on him.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. I want to.” 

“Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll have my phone with me, so just call me if there’s any kind of problem, or if he has a nightmare or somethin’. You want me to bring you back somethin’ to eat?” 

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “Just get a couple of whatever. Enough for him too, in case he wakes up. He’s gotta be starving. We never wound up eating dinner, last night…” 

Steve might have blushed a little, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, then. I’ll, uh… I’ll come back as soon as I can. Thanks, Darce.” 

He was about to leave, his hand on the door, and then he hesitated, turning back, and said, “Uh… I should tell you— if he does have a nightmare, you should… well, just call me, okay? Don’t try to talk him down yourself. Maybe, you know… maybe sleep on the couch, if you get tired.” 

“Okay,” she said, and then he’d nodded to her and left, letting the door shut quietly behind him. 

Once he was gone, she looked around the apartment for a few minutes— it was pretty tidy, for a couple of bachelors— cleaner than her own place, actually. They didn’t have many decorations; just some shelves with a modest collection of books, mostly nonfiction— world history, some political titles, a nice atlas… 

There was an old-fashioned record player, and a vertical stack of LPs next to it; she thumbed through them, looking at the titles— most of them were oldies from the 30s and 40s, but there were some later volumes as well, from the 50s and 60s, like John Coltrane’s _Blue Train_ and Miles Davis’ _Sketches of Spain_. 

A small collection of framed photographs sat on the other shelf, and the faces of men likely long-since dead stared back at her; she let out a surprised breath when she saw that Bucky and Steve were in a couple of them as well, like time-travelers in some kind of science-fiction movie. 

She picked one of them up, to take a closer look: Steve looked practically the same as he did now. Bucky was recognizable— his handsome face easy to pick out— but his essential essence was so different, that it made something ache inside her to see it… the youth so evident in the old photo not so much a difference in chronological age, as a weight on his soul that wasn’t yet there. 

She set the frame carefully back down on the shelf, stared at it for another minute, and then she breathed out and crept over to his bedroom door, pushing it open as quietly as she could. He’d rolled onto his side, over toward the edge of the bed, but his eyes were still shut, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. There was a simple wooden chair in the corner of the room, and she set her phone down on it, and took a look around. 

It was spare, even for a bedroom— most of it filled by the large bed; there was a plain, wooden bedside table, on the side Bucky was rolled toward, with a small ceramic lamp on it. The rest of the space was used up by a mirrored closet, the door slid open sideways to reveal a built-in dresser within, and a medium-sized bookshelf pushed against the opposite wall. It was lined with a decent collection of books, mostly paperbacks, and a stack of rumpled-looking notebooks. She recognized the sci-fi novel she’d brought to him in medical, lying on its side on one of the shelves. 

She looked at him again, listened to the smooth, deep rhythm of his breathing, and then, after a second of thought, tugged her knit pants off, folded them up, and put them on the chair, followed by her bra, which she threaded out from under her shirt and tucked discreetly inside the folded pants. She picked up her phone, slid the button to mute the ringer, and set it face down on top of the clothes. 

She went over to the empty side of the bed, lifted up the covers, climbed in, and then slid over until she was pressed up against his body. He was warm now, and smelled clean from his shower. 

It seemed ridiculous for her to be the big spoon to his little spoon, but that’s how she wound up holding him, and that’s how she fell asleep. 

<<>>

She woke up a few hours later. The room was dim and quiet, and Bucky was still rolled on his side, sound asleep, his breathing still a regular, heavy pulse. She slipped out of the bed as gently as she could, and checked the time on her phone: it was almost 5pm. She had a couple missed messages from Jane, finally acknowledging her sick day; she’d told her to take the next day off as well, if she needed it. 

Her stomach was growling. She pulled her pants back on but skipped the bra, and padded her way out to the kitchenette— it was bigger than hers; made for two people to move around in instead of one— and grabbed an apple out of a bowl on the counter. The apartment was very quiet— Steve was still out. 

She snuck back into the bedroom and grabbed the sci-fi paperback from the bookcase, took it back into the livingroom, where there was more light, and settled herself onto the couch, tucking her legs up under her body, to read as she munched on the apple. 

She’d gotten through the first three chapters when she heard the chime of the electronic lock disengaging, and then Steve was shuffling through the door, his arms loaded down with takeout containers from the cafeteria. 

“Here, lemme help you,” she said, tossing the book down on the coffee table. He nodded his thanks as she took some things from his hands. “You get all your work done?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Finally. Pain in the ass. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he does this kinda thing to get out of it.” He’d been setting the bags down on the counter, and he stopped, blew out a breath. “Sorry,” he said. “That was outta line.” 

“Nah, I get it,” she said. “I’ve had to do my share of paperwork for Jane. Let’s just say it’s not the reason I stay on around here.” 

“What is?” asked Steve, curious, as he pulled out a stool for her, offering her a place to sit. He went around to the other side of the counter, opened a drawer, pulled out some silverware for both of them, and then came back around, handed her a set, and took a seat next to her. 

“I dunno,” she said. “Jane’s work is pretty interesting, paperwork aside, so it’s cool to be a part of that. Keeps me on my toes. Pay’s not bad. Pretty good, actually. Get to meet interesting people…” She wagged her eyebrows a little, and Steve chuckled and slid a container over to her. 

“Hope that’s okay,” he said. “Didn’t know if you eat meat, or what. It’s veggie lasagne.” 

“Yum,” she said. “I’ll take it.” She opened up the container and wasted no time slicing off a bite-sized chunk with the edge of her fork. 

“He still sleepin’ hard?” he finally asked, broaching the topic. 

“Yeah,” she said. 

“That’s good,” he said. “It’ll help.” 

“Hope so,” she said. “Hurts to see him like that.” 

“Tell me about it,” said Steve, and then they just ate a while in silence. Steve had brought enough food for all of them, and once they’d eaten their fill, she helped him put away the leftovers, in case Bucky woke up and wanted to eat, and then she helped him do the few dishes and wipe down the countertop. 

There’d been no overt discussion of her staying the night, but once the kitchen was tidied up, Steve just bade her an early good night, saying he was completely beat, and was going to read in bed. He obviously assumed she’d be staying, which was fine by her. If she’d gone back to her own room, she would have just lain awake all night, worrying about him. 

“Couch isn’t too bad to sleep on,” he finally said, and she just nodded, though she had no intention of sleeping on the couch. 

“Probably fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow,” he added. “But, uh… don’t hesitate to wake me up, if, you know… if you hear any kind of problem.” 

She wanted to ask him what kind of problem she should be on the lookout for, but instead she just nodded again. “Night, Steve.” 

“Good night.” 

<<>>

Darcy sat up straight in the unfamiliar bed, her T-shirt soaked and sticking to her sweaty skin, trying to figure out what was going on, why she’d woken up. It must’ve been the middle of the night, the apartment completely silent. Except it wasn’t: 

“ _Gotta… fuckin’ coward… gonna fuck you up_ …” 

Bucky was muttering in his sleep, and she leaned over him, trying to determine if he was having a nightmare— if this was something like what Steve had been warning her about, something she needed to alert him to. 

Bucky was on his back, pouring buckets of sweat, even though he’d kicked most of the covers off— no wonder she’d overheated; he was like a furnace. His eyes were shut, his eyelids fluttering as his eyeballs moved rapidly beneath the surface, and he was mumbling almost continuously, the words stuttered, fragmented, mostly incoherent, punctuated by odd little laughs and sputters. 

“ _Fuckin’ kill you_ ,” he said, and his lips pulled up into a humorless smile for a second, more of a grimace, and he was panting, his breathing rapid and shallow, and Darcy edged away a little on the mattress, afraid to brush against him, wary of startling him, for how agitated he seemed… 

He pressed his lips together, hard, breathing in heavy through his nose, and then released the tension with a forceful exhale, and then sucked in another breath and held it, only to make a pained sound, almost a whimper. She could see his jaw shuddering. It was like he was cold, even though he was bathed in sweat, and then his teeth were gritting together, and he rolled onto his side again, away from her, his metal arm dangling off the edge of the bed, and then all was quiet again… 

She was frozen, her heart pounding as she listened in the dark, waiting to see if that was gonna be the end of it… 

She was just starting to relax again when he jerked violently and cursed, and his metal arm thrashed out, knocking over the lamp on the bedside table, and she could hear it fall to the floor and shatter, and he was growling— something like “ _Get the fuck off me_ ,” and then, “ _Fuckin’ kill you_ ,” again, and then he fell clean off the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a loud _thump_ , and then he was up, bent over in the shadows, panting, awake but not, naked in the dark, and he was holding something in his hand— maybe a piece of the broken lamp— gripping it like a weapon, breathing hard, like he was scared, as he scanned the empty space in front of him, by the half-open door, and she couldn’t tell if he was seeing what was actually there, or if he was lost somewhere else in his mind… 

Darcy had scrambled backward out of the bed on the opposite side, feeling too vulnerable in just her underwear and T-shirt, and she was trying to stay very quiet, backing slowly over to the chair, and then the bedroom door banged open, and Steve was there, flicking on the light, all of them blinking in the sudden brightness, and Steve called out, “Bucky! Bucky, wake up!” 

He risked a quick glance to Darcy, saying, “You all right?” his voice intense, moving his eyes immediately back to Bucky, who was still hunched over in the corner by the closet in a defensive stance, hand flexing on the jagged piece of broken ceramic, breathing heavy. There were several nasty cuts across his chest, probably from falling on the shattered lamp, and they were leaking blood in little streams down the planes of his muscles, dripping onto the floor… 

Steve had his hand out, both a calming and defensive stance, even as he began to step further into the room, blocking the space at the end of the bed so that Darcy could get behind him if she needed to. 

“I’m fine,” she said, eyes on Bucky. She was shivering a little, from the adrenaline. “What do we do?” 

“S’just a nightmare,” said Steve. “Thinks he’s back in the chair… or maybe earlier…” 

“What do we do?” she repeated. 

“Bucky!” Steve said again, sharply. “Bucky, wake up! It ain’t real. You’re in New York. You’re in your bedroom. You’re safe.” 

There was another tense minute while the two men stared each other down, Darcy’s heart pounding so hard she felt like she could hear it, and then all of a sudden Bucky straightened up just an inch or two, his head turning slightly to the side as he stared at Steve, and then he backed up into the wall, banging into it, and slid roughly down it to a crouched position on the floor… 

Steve was approaching him, cautiously, his hand still out… “You with me, buddy?” he said. “You good?” 

Bucky didn’t answer— just looked down at the shard of ceramic in his hand and then flung it aside, and then dropped his head into his hands, elbows braced on his bent knees. He was still breathing heavily, like he was trying to come down from a run. 

Steve glanced over to Darcy, gave her a small, reassuring nod, and then squatted down in front of Bucky, reaching out carefully until he could put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You all right?” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” Bucky finally said, still struggling to bring his breathing down. “Yeah.” Then he looked up, looked around the room, saw Darcy pressed against the wall on the other side of the bed, and hissed out, “Fuck. _Fuck_.” 

He pushed up, pushed past Steve, who was standing up, trying to stop him, saying, “Bucky, wait,” but he was already out of the room. The bathroom door slammed down the hall, and a couple seconds later they could hear the sound of water running in the sink. 

Darcy let out a slow exhale. Her heart rate was still elevated, but she was relieved to have heard his voice— his lucid voice, even if it was to curse her presence. 

She realized she was still just standing there in a shirt and underpants, and she was still shivering, but now it was simply from being cold, the sweat now chilling her skin. She turned to the chair and grabbed her knit pants, stepping into them, as Steve turned his back, once he saw what she was doing. 

“So, um,” she said, as she pulled them up. “Does this sorta thing… well, does it happen a lot?” 

Steve took a minute to answer, and when he did, he wouldn’t look at her. He exhaled and then said it. “Is it gonna be a deal-breaker if I tell you that it’s not… rare?” 

“What?” she said. “No! I’m just… I want to understand what’s going on, what I can do…” 

Steve took a couple seconds and then he finally glanced sideways at her. “I’m real glad to hear that,” he said softly. “I was … well, I ain’t gonna lie— no judgement, but a lotta people wouldn’t stick around after seein’ all of—” 

“Well, I’m not a lot of people,” she said, and there was a little bit of anger in her voice. 

“Yeah, I’m startin’ to see that,” said Steve. 

They heard the water shut off, and the sound of the bathroom door opening, but nobody came out. 

Steve glanced to Darcy and said, “I’m, uh… I’m gonna try to go back to bed. He should be okay now.” He put his hand on Darcy’s arm, briefly, and said, “I’m right next door,” before he left the room. 

She heard Steve’s door close, and she sat down on the chair in the corner, picked up her phone and pretended to check something on it, and finally, a couple minutes later, Bucky came back into the room. He didn’t look at her— just went into the top drawer of his dresser, pulled out a fresh pair of boxer briefs, and stepped into them, and then he just stood there, still facing away, his metal hand resting on the edge of the closet doorway. She could hear him breathing. 

She could tell he was nervous. His entire body looked tense, and she hated it— hated that he was probably worried about her reaction, worried what she might be thinking. She put the phone down, and made her way over to him— slowly, but not trying to be quiet— letting him hear exactly where she was in the room. She stood behind him for a few seconds and then carefully lay one hand on his back. 

He didn’t flinch, and she was grateful for that, but she could still feel the tension in him, his ribcage expanding with each deep inhale. 

She moved in then, wrapping her arms around him from behind, her hands pressing into his stomach as her cheek rested against the bare skin of his back. 

He dropped his metal hand down, letting it hang at his side, and moved the flesh one to cover hers, and took another deep breath, shuddering a little on the inhale. 

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft. “You were bleeding…” 

“S’nothin’,” he said. “Won’t even know it happened, in another hour.” He was quiet again for a few seconds, and then he said, “Wish I could say the same about… well, about the rest of it.” 

He turned a little in her arms then, so that he was almost facing her, but his eyes were still closed, his face angled away, like he was afraid to look at her. 

She wished she knew what to say. Wished they had a code word to just sum it all up: _This doesn’t change anything. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not leaving_. 

_I love you_. 

“M’sorry,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I don’t—” He stopped, held his breath, opened his eyes, but he looked past her face, to the wall behind her, on the other side of the room, and then let the breath out in another long sigh. “Wish you hadn’t seen that.” 

“I don’t,” she said, simply. She still had her arms around him, and she was running one of her hands up and down the skin just above his hip. She took a chance and said, “Now you don’t have to worry about it anymore— worry about trying to hide it from me.” 

He was still tense, her words not helping. “But I do,” he said softly, and he still couldn’t look at her. “I am gonna worry.” He was speaking to the floor. “Coulda hurt you.” 

“So we figure it out,” she said. “Figure out what I should do, if you’re having a nightmare, so that you’ll know I’m safe. So you don’t have to worry about it.” 

He let out another long exhale, his eyes shutting. She could feel him wanting to argue, to protest, but he kept his mouth shut, and she hoped that was a baby-step in the right direction, rather than a willful repression of his feelings. She was quiet, waiting to see if he would say anything else. It took him a while, but he finally took in a deeper breath and spoke. 

“It fucked me up,” he said. “The kid.” And then he let go of her and stepped to the side, crouched down, and started to scoop up the rest of the broken pieces of the lamp. 

“I saw it on TV,” she said, and she sat down on the edge of the mattress. “I mean, they cut away, when—” 

“I got down there, right after,” he said. He went over to the bookshelf, grabbed a book out of it, and used the spine to sweep all the broken pieces of lamp away from the bed, toward the wall. The bulb hadn’t shattered, at least— it’d been miraculously protected by the thick lampshade. He picked up the remains of the base and the shade and set them against the wall by the pile of debris. 

“There was a hand,” he said, as he stood up again. “A tiny little hand on the road.” He looked over to her then, finally made eye contact, and he looked so tired and sad, like he was somehow responsible for everything, for all the bad feelings in the world. 

“C’mere,” she said, and she pulled back the covers and moved over, making room for him. She pulled her pants back off, threw them at the chair. “Come and lie down with me.” 

He obeyed, grabbing the towel from earlier, still rumpled up on his side of the bed, and brushed his hands off with it. He dropped it on the floor to cover the tiny, leftover shards of lamp, and then he got into bed with her. 

She pulled up the covers around them, and snuggled in so that they were face-to-face, inches apart, their legs twining together as though they’d done this a million times. She reached up a hand to his cheek, and he shut his eyes as she drew her fingers down through his beard. 

She felt like she should say something, like, “ _It’s gonna be okay_ ,” but everything sounded trite or dishonest in her head, so in the end she just snuggled in closer to him, nestling her head into his chest as he rolled onto his back, his arm coming around to hold her against him, again like they’d done it a million times before. It felt natural. 

They didn’t talk any more, his metal fingers tracing gentle lines up and down her back as they both stared into the darkness together, and he listened to her breathing get longer and deeper until finally she drifted off to sleep. 

He was awake for the rest of the night, staring into the darkness, thinking about it. How she hadn’t run away, even though he’d given her several opportunities. He’d been stupid to think he could keep it separate— the lie of what he wanted to have with her, and the truth of what he really was. Now that she knew, it felt like something beautiful had been spoiled. 

But she was still there— wrapped around his body, even. Asleep— _trusting_ him— and he had no idea what to do with that. 

He wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe they could ‘ _figure it out_ ’— like it was just that easy. 

It wasn’t easy. Hell, even Steve knew that, and they weren’t tryin’ to share a bed. 

Maybe believing that it was even possible— as she seemed to— was enough for now. 

He knew he didn’t deserve Darcy Lewis. But he sure as hell was gonna try.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the 5th and final true interruption  
> \----------

 

She woke up alone, and she could hear noises coming from outside the bedroom— the murmur of low voices, and the clink of plates and running water, like someone was washing dishes. She sat up, pushed out of the bed, and checked the time on her phone. It was a little after seven in the morning. She felt like she’d gone on a bender, and was the last person from the party to join the living again. She could smell fresh coffee, and it called to her like a siren’s song. 

She paused behind the half-open door of the bedroom, and could hear Bucky and Steve— they seemed to be having an argument, though they were keeping their voices low. She didn’t want to interrupt, so she snuck down to the bathroom, but then made a point of shutting the door loudly and turning on the shower, so that they’d know she was up. 

It hadn’t been her dream vision for her first sleepover, but then nothing about this relationship had unfolded in a normal way. Whatever. Normal was overrated. She just prayed that he wasn’t going to panic and shut her out, now that he’d had more time to think about it. 

Typical of men, they only had a couple of products in the shower— some inexpensive combination shampoo-conditioner and a plain white bar of soap— but the quick, five-minute scrub-and-rinse felt good. 

She wrapped herself up in a big towel and snuck back to the bedroom again, put her knit pants and bra back on, but stole herself a clean T-shirt from one of Bucky’s drawers. She saw that he had a basket of dirty laundry on the floor of his closet, and she added her dirty T-shirt and undies to it, grinning to herself— she’d let him find them on his own, later. Though she’d been joking about the panty-sniffing before, she had a feeling there was something there, by the way he’d responded to it… 

By the time she padded into the kitchen, she could smell food— Steve was heating up leftovers, while Bucky was busy making an enormous tower of peanut butter toast. They were either done with their argument, or they’d put a pin in it when they heard her coming. 

They were both wearing comfortable clothes— T-shirts and sweatpants— and looked freshly-showered. Bucky had his back to her, working at the counter with a butter knife, and she moved right up behind him, giving him a hug right away, just to completely preempt any potential awkwardness. 

She could feel Steve watching her from where he was leaning against the counter, waiting for the microwave to finish, and she said, “Morning, Steve,” without letting go of Bucky. He was warm, and his sturdy frame felt healthy and strong in her arms, which was a very good feeling after seeing him in so much pain the night before. She had to resist the urge to grope his ass, with Steve right there watching them. 

“Mornin’ Darcy,” said Steve. He didn’t ask her if she’d slept all right, even though that was the standard follow-up question for a sleepover. Instead he just said, “You want some coffee?” 

“Does the Pope wear a funny hat?” she said, and she could feel Bucky’s body quake in a little chuckle against her arms as he continued his work on the toast. 

Steve poured her a mug of coffee, and replaced the carafe inside the coffeemaker, and a second later the microwave went _ding_ ; he popped the door open, pulling out a large plate heaped with steaming pasta in a red sauce. It was a weird choice for breakfast, but she supposed these guys probably ate mass quantities of carbs at all hours of the day. 

Bucky craned his head to the side, so he could look down at her, where her head was still pressed against his back, and he said, “You want some peanut butter toast?” 

She let go of him finally, and took a look at the tower of toast sandwiches on his plate— he had at least eight slices stacked up so far, alternating face-up and face-down so that the peanut-butter sides were sticking together. 

“I dunno,” she said. “You sure there’s enough for me?” 

Steve snickered and Bucky went back to work with his knife and said, “Fuck the both of you. Just for that, you’re not gettin’ any of it. You can make your own damn toast.” He finished up the next two slices, made them into a sandwich, cut them on the diagonal, and added them to the tower. 

She immediately reached over and took one of the triangles and started eating it as she leaned back on the counter, cocking an eyebrow at him in a clear challenge. He looked down at her and chuckled, his face looking so fond that it made her heart leap a little. _Okay. Maybe it was gonna be okay_. 

She had a little blob of peanut butter on the corner of her upper lip, and he reached over and dabbed it up with his pointer finger and stuck it in his mouth, his eyes never leaving her. 

Steve was eating his pasta standing up, watching them as he shoveled in his food. He swallowed a big mouthful and washed it down with a drink of water, and then cleared his throat and said, “You know you got a lot of vacation time stored up.” 

Bucky made a scoffing sound. “Can you see me on vacation?” The next batch of toast popped up, and he removed the slices, slathered them with peanut butter, sandwiched them together and sliced them, and then added them to the tower. 

It seemed like Steve was actually trying to imagine it, just as Darcy was— Bucky in tropical-print swimming trunks and sunglasses, sipping a fruity cocktail on a beach somewhere… nope. 

“Think about it,” said Steve, after another big shovelful of pasta. “I bet I could get you off the roster, get you some time off right away.” 

“Maybe,” said Bucky, and Steve grinned, because for Bucky that was about as close to a ‘yes’ as Steve was gonna get. 

“I’m gonna see what I can do,” said Steve. He finished his plate, rinsed and stacked it in the sink, and then he grabbed his phone and left. 

<<>>

They’d finished all the toast— two full slices for her, eight for him— and he was absently sticking his finger into the stray blobs of peanut butter on the empty plate and then licking them off his finger, and it was such a child-like non-super-soldier thing to do that she couldn’t help grinning at him like an idiot from where she was sitting, at the other end of the couch, her legs stretched out, feet pushing into the side of his gorgeous, meaty thigh. 

“I see you lookin’ at me,” he said, with humor, and he kept doing it, until the plate was clean, and then he set it down on the coffee-table and leaned back, rubbed at the corner of his eye and yawned. They’d each had a couple of cups of coffee, but there was still a layer of exhaustion there, no doubt from the drama of the preceding day-and-a-half. 

They hadn’t talked about any of it yet. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to, but _not_ talking about it— not at all— seemed ridiculous. Maybe that’s what he and Steve had been arguing about. 

She sat up then, and crawled over to him, climbed right into his lap, settling herself into the soft fabric of his sweatpants; his big hands automatically came up to rest on either side of her waist. 

He looked tired— he had lines on his face that she hadn’t noticed before… as though he’d lost weight over just one day. She put her fingers into his hair— his thick, dark, beautiful hair— and combed it back from his face, and he shut his eyes, letting her do it— let her take care of him for a minute. She could feel the wheels turning in his head, though, so she wasn’t surprised when the question came. She was nervous, but glad they weren’t just going to pretend that nothing had happened. 

“Can I, uh… can I ask you somethin’?” 

“Yeah, of course,” she said, still combing through his hair. His eyes were still closed. “Anything.” 

He was the one who’d started, but then he was quiet for a minute, like he was still figuring out how to say it. 

“Look, I know you’re actin’ like none of this is any big deal, and you say you’re all fine with… with everything, but—” 

Her hands paused in his hair as she felt a little flutter of anxiety, because this was starting to sound like it could go sour. Like an ‘ _I think we need to slow down_ ,’ kind of talk, and she was praying he wasn’t going to say something like that, because she honestly had no idea how she would answer. 

She’d be crushed. She was in love with this man. 

But she also knew that something had shifted between them— the trauma he’d obviously experienced from the incident, and the shame he seemed to feel for his behavior— all of it had been like a bucket of water on the flames they’d been steadily stoking over the past however many weeks, and now she was terrified that he was going to back off, just let those sparks die out… 

Maybe he didn’t think it could work. Maybe he was thinking he wasn’t in any kind of shape to be doing something like this. She remembered what Steve had said: ‘ _Don’t let him push you away_ ,” and she really hoped that wasn’t what was about to go down. Maybe he didn’t realize that she wasn’t expecting him to be perfect. Flawless. Easy. 

That she loved him— warts and all, as the saying went, though there was nothing about Bucky that she'd characterize as warty. But he clearly saw himself— on some level— as unacceptable, and that needed to end. 

She wanted to give him whatever he needed, even if (God help her) it meant slowing down, but she _needed_ him to know that nothing had changed for her. She still wanted him. Cared about him. Loved him. 

He blew out a long breath and said, “I just— I guess I need to hear it. Hear it straight, so I don’t go playin’ games in my head. Now that you seen what—” He finally opened his eyes and looked at her, and she felt like she could see every pore in his face, every detail, like it was all in some kind of ultra-fine focus, and his brow furrowed a little and he said, “I mean— are you sure Darcy? You sure you wanna do this?” 

She knew he wasn’t talking about sex— she’d made it pretty clear that she’d wanted him _that_ way, from the get-go. But it’d ceased being only about that a long time ago. Maybe even on their first date, when they’d gone on that walk around the track, and she’d gotten her first glimpse inside, at the parts of him nobody else could see, except for Steve— how funny he was, how kind… How good it felt to make him laugh— how you could see the weight of years fall off him when he did it… how good she felt about _herself_ when she was with him: he made her feel smart, and funny and beautiful… like she could do anything. Not in an egotistical way, but more like… like someone was finally seeing the person she knew was inside, but that she had to work so hard to get others to see… or if they did, they didn’t think she was much of anything special… 

Bucky made her feel like she was the most special thing in the world. Like he was lucky. 

His question still hung there in the air: ‘ _You sure you wanna do this?_ ’ and it made her heart hurt that he had any doubt. Made her realize that he was afraid she was gonna hurt him. Come to her senses and… 

She smoothed her hand back along his jaw and then leaned in to kiss him— it was the first real kiss they’d shared since before the hostage situation; the one in the clover field more like something from a dream— and he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly as she moved her mouth against him, barely moving his own lips in return— almost like he was afraid something would break if he responded too much. 

She pulled back, running her thumb across his lower lip. He opened his eyes, and she said, “Course I do,” and she said it quietly, without the usual joking around or snarky tone. “Haven’t seen anything here that’s a deal-breaker for me. Not even close.” 

But then she couldn’t resist, and she added, “It’s not like I found out you’re really into football or something,” and that did it— that broke him out of his gloom, his face cracking into a smile that reached his eyes, but then it died just as quickly, almost like he was gonna get in trouble for being happy— like he didn’t have the right— and then he looked so _sad_ that she couldn’t stand it. It should be illegal, his looking that way. 

She leaned in to kiss him again, putting a little more into it this time, nudging his mouth open with her tongue, and he let her in, his breath picking up a little as his hands slid along her sides, and she could have escalated it— felt the urge to, as their tongues tangled together slowly— wanting to move his hands onto her breasts, under the loose shirt, to circle her hips in his lap, to draw out his arousal as she knew she could— but she didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to make it about sex, not right now. 

She slid out of his lap instead, stood up and held her hand out to him, and when he looked at it, and then moved his eyes up to her face, she just said, “Come on,” and he probably had the wrong idea— probably thought she wanted to move it to the bedroom so she could ravish him, like she’d tried to do all the other times she’d gotten him alone, but really she just wanted to lie down with him. 

He didn’t ask— just put his hand in hers and stood up, and followed her wordlessly as she led him back to his bedroom and shut the door quietly, and when she lay down on the bed he followed, and all she wanted to do was kiss him a little and hold him— just be there with him, convince him that she wasn’t going anywhere. That it wasn’t just about how horny he made her, or how well he could keep his shit together, or anything like that. She just wanted to be with him. 

At first she was just snuggled into his side, one of her legs slung over his body as he lay on his back, much in the same way she’d fallen asleep on him the night before, and his hand was trailing up and down her back again, and then it reached a little lower, smoothing big, slow circles around the full curve of her ass for a while, and she sighed in contentment. 

And then he was the one who slid down a little, rolled them so that she was on her back and he was stretched out next to her on his side, his big hand on her waist, making her feel like a dainty thing even though she was anything but, and he just looked at her for a few seconds, his eyes moving over her face as she lay there looking back, and she felt strangely bare, even though she had all of her clothes on— like he could see right inside her, see what she was made of, and it was a vulnerable feeling, but she welcomed it, wanting him to see her, see her intentions, the emotions written on her face. 

They still hadn’t said it— not out loud, other than that one time when it was lighthearted, when they were texting after watching the movie, but this was different. This was the _Big L_ … the, ‘ _you’re it for me_ ,’ and she didn’t know why neither of them was saying it, because it was so obvious— like a tangible thing passing between them in that moment. 

He leaned in then and kissed her, moving his hand up to hold her face while he did it, and there was so much behind it that she whimpered a little, her eyes stinging, and then he released her and kissed down her jaw, her neck, the exposed part of her chest, where the borrowed T-shirt hung low in the front, and then he kept going, kissing her breasts through the shirt as his hands moved down her sides, and then he was rucking up her shirt to mouth at her belly, his beard almost tickling her sensitive skin there, and then he stopped, smoothing his hands up and down her legs, through the knit pants, and he said, quietly, “Can you take these off?” 

She sat up a little, just long enough to pull them down and off, tossing them aside before she lay back again, and if he was surprised that she didn’t have any underwear on, he didn’t show it— just went back to kissing her stomach, and then moved down, over her hipbones to her thighs, and then he nudged himself over, slotting his broad body between her legs and she shut her eyes, her heart already pounding in anticipation… 

He kissed her once, right above her pubic hair, and then he said, his voice very soft, “Can I— is it okay if I—” 

She blinked open her eyes and he was looking at her, his own eyes heavy with arousal, and she just bit her lip and then released it, telling him _yes_ with her face and a subtle circle of her hips, and his jaw opened a little as he breathed, holding her eyes, and then he slid down… 

He was almost tentative at first, just placing gentle kisses against the soft flesh of her lips, and she could feel his hot breath on her, and it was almost painful, the anticipation, wanting _more_ , needing to feel the swipe of his wet tongue against her, and she shifted her hips a little, her breath coming heavy already, and she whispered his name, opening her eyes as she lifted her head enough to look at him, see what he was doing… 

He looked up at her then, just once, and the expression on his face was so burdened with desire that it made her cant her hips up toward him, feeling her own body flood with arousal, needing him, and he dipped back down and finally felt her with his tongue, just a little, almost hesitant, like he was afraid of hurting her, stroking gently between her lips, and when she moaned and moved against him, he placed his metal hand on her thigh, and she opened up a little more, letting him in… 

He put his mouth back on her, open, hot, his lips against her, his tongue fully on her now, tasting her as he stroked the flat of it right up her center, slowly, and then he paused, exhaling, and she heard him say, “ _God_ …” 

It was like something tripped in him then— some switch, a hunger— and he went back in with a raw need, tasting her with abandon, alternately licking up her center and then sucking on her lips, feeling the texture of her in his mouth, holding her legs open as he pushed against her in waves, moaning as he tried to get closer, and he was making almost as much noise as she was, and it made her smile, her eyes shut, her mouth falling open, loving how much he was enjoying it, because that made it even better… 

And then he had to stop for a second to breathe, and he was almost panting as he said, “Fuck, I— doll, you gotta tell me… don’t know what I’m doing, I ain’t ever…” 

And her brain stuttered at that, and she said, weakly, hoping he could hear her, “You— you’ve never done this before?” 

And she didn’t know why it was such a surprise, seeing as how he’d never gotten any oral action himself until now, but she’d just assumed he’d had _some_ kind of experience, based on how goddamned _good_ he was at it, and she offered up a prayer of thanks that he was obviously enjoying it, getting off on it— on her smell, her taste, the whole experience… 

She didn’t know how she would’ve felt if she’d been his first time eating pussy only for him to back up and say, _Uh, you know what? I guess I’ll pass_ … 

He didn’t answer her question directly— just said, “Is it good?” his voice breathy, almost desperate. “Tell me it’s good for you… _God_ , sweetheart, you’re so beautiful… wanna make you feel good…” He was using his hands, his thumbs to hold her open so he could see everything, learn all of her, and he went back to tonguing and sucking on her, rolling her flesh around in his mouth, and she was whimpering, trying to answer him… 

“It’s good,” she managed to gasp out. “ _So_ good… _Bucky_ …” 

And she couldn’t speak any more, because it was almost overwhelming, her eyes stinging from it— not just the physical pleasure of it, but how much of _him_ she could feel in the way he was loving her— and she actually felt _lucky_ that he’d never done it before, because he wasn’t trying to show off, or test some trick he’d read about online, or base his moves off some bad, porno-movie version of what guys think women like. It was all just _him_ — his own instincts, his own arousal, his feelings for her, and it was so, so, good… 

He groaned again, whispering “ _Fuck_ ,” right up against her, and she knew she must be gushing all over his face— that she must be soaking his beard with her juices— and she’d be almost self-conscious about how wet she was, if she couldn’t feel how much he was loving it, how much it was turning him on… 

He’d found the hood of her clit, and was doing with his tongue what she’d shown him how to do with his fingers— stroking up and down along the side, and then he’d pull a whole mouthful in with his lips, sucking on all of it as he rolled his tongue around the hood, and her thighs were starting to shake, and her breath was a ragged mess, stuttered with moans and pleas, and then it was like he’d just gotten the best idea _ever_ , realizing he could use his fingers inside at the same time, and she was almost crying from how good it felt, his big, long fingers stroking her slowly inside while his gorgeous mouth worked her over on the outside, and he was moaning words to her in between, like, “ _fuck… sweetheart…baby doll_ …,” and it was sizing up to be just the kind of mind-blowing orgasm she’d been needing from him for _weeks_ , when— 

— _ **DING**_ — 

It was loud, the chime—even with Bucky’s door shut— and he swore as his fingers slid out her, his mouth leaving her body with a wet-sounding _smack_ and he rested the side of his face against her inner thigh as he exhaled, his breathing labored, like he’d been running a race. 

“Fucking hell,” he said. 

Her own response was just a strangled sound of despair. 

She wanted to tell him to ignore it— to keep on going— fuck it, fuck _everyone_ , she needed to _fucking come_ , but he sighed and said, “Ten bucks says he knocks on the door.” 

He slid out from between her legs, moving to her side, and pulled the sheet up to cover her body, just in case the asshole actually tried the knob after knocking. His face was glistening with her slick, and he moved his hand up to feel it, and huffed out a laugh. “Fuck, I’m a mess.” 

She couldn’t even respond— she was still in shock from the sudden loss of his mouth— and sure enough, a few seconds later, just like he said… 

_**Tap tap tap**_ … 

“Hey Buck? You in there?” 

He rolled his eyes and called out, “ _Go away_ , Steve.” 

“Oh,” they heard, on the other side of the door. “Uh, sorry. I’ll, uh…” 

He didn’t finish the sentence, but they could hear him leaving, and after a minute, she started laughing again, quietly, her hands over her face— it was either that or she was going to weep— because even though it was clear that Steve had hurried away, the mood had still been completely ruined. 

“You okay?” he said, and he sounded a little worried, like maybe something in her had finally cracked, and she just pulled her hands away from her face, wiping her eyes where she’d teared up a little, whether from laughter or despair, she couldn’t tell… 

She breathed out a long-suffering sigh and said, “You wanna go to my place?” 

To her relief, he said, “Fuck, yeah,” and she got up and started pulling her pants back on, while he stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe his face off, and then got up to get a fresh one from his dresser. 

“Guess I better see what he wanted,” he said, once they were both fully dressed again, and he opened up the door, and she followed him out to the livingroom, where Steve was sitting on the couch, looking sheepish. 

“Sorry,” he said, avoiding eye-contact. 

“S’fine,” said Bucky, gruffly. “What’s up?” 

Steve risked another glance at them, and then pointed to a thick envelope on the coffee table. 

“What’s that?” asked Bucky, while Darcy leaned forward to pick it up. 

“Cash,” said Steve. “And a couple of pre-paid Visa cards. There’s enough in there to take you anywhere you wanna go, do whatever you wanna do. As of right now, you’re both on PTO. Two weeks.” 

Nobody said a word for a couple of seconds. 

“You’re shittin’ me,” said Bucky finally, while Darcy leaned over to grab the envelope, and flipped through the contents. 

“He’s not,” she said. “There’s a lot of money in here.” 

“Pack a bag,” said Steve. “You too, Darcy. I mean, if you want to. I already cleared it with Dr. Foster. You’re all set.” 

“This isn’t because of what happened…” started Bucky. “They’re not putting me on leave for—” 

“No, Buck,” said Steve. “It’s just… well, your friends all thought you guys deserved some time together. Without interruptions.” His face pinked a little then, as he scratched the side of his neck. 

“Anyway, don’t be a dumbass and refuse, all right? There’s a driver down at the garage, ready to take you to the city, if you want to get an international flight or somethin’. Or there’s the local airport if you want. Think they got flights to most of the eastern hubs…” 

They were both still speechless, processing it, and Steve pushed up from the couch and said, “I gotta get goin’— I’m already late, but—” He nodded his head, like an affirmation. “Go. Have some fun. Or get some rest. Or both, whatever. You deserve it. Work’ll still be here, when you get back.” 

And then he left them alone, and they were quiet for a few minutes, neither of them knowing quite what to say. 

“Do you wanna go anywhere?” Darcy finally said. 

“I dunno,” he said. “Don’t really know how to go on vacation, if I’m bein’ honest. Never really done it before. You got anywhere you wanna go?” 

“I don’t care,” she said, “as long as it’s with you.” She moved over to hug him, his big arms instinctively wrapping her up as she pressed into him. “I know that sounds super corny, but I mean it. Seriously, we could just go right back to bed, and I’d be fine with that too.” 

She grinned up at him, wagging her eyebrows, and then she squeezed her thighs together, because her pussy was now aching and empty and needing his attention more than ever… but then she said, somewhat seriously, “Although I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to going somewhere nobody could find us for a few days… it’s pretty clear we’re dealing with some kind of curse, and if we get interrupted again, I can't be held responsible for what happens…” 

He was quiet then, gently stroking her back with his flesh hand, and she didn’t know if he was trying to come up with ideas, or if he was just trying to convince himself that this was something he was really allowed to do, so she just started throwing out destinations. 

“Bali? Costa Rica? Hawai’i? Or, I dunno, we could go to the Galapagos Islands or something, look at the marine iguanas…” 

“You ever walk across the Brooklyn Bridge?” he said suddenly. 

“No,” she said, looking up at him. 

“Do you wanna?” 

It was a strange idea, considering they could go anywhere, but she didn’t hesitate. 

“With you?” She smiled. “I’d love to.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god, I did not mean to create *another* interruption for them-- it's just that this chapter was exceedingly long, and this was a good break point. Don't consider it a 6th interruption, because nobody's goin' nowhere this time, I promise... think of it more as a 'pause' while I load up the next reel...  
> \----------

 

“You folks goin’ to the city?” 

They’d taken just thirty minutes to get ready, trying to make it quick, before anyone could reconsider and start handing out eight-week assignments again. Darcy had jogged back to her own room to change clothes and pack a small bag, and then met up with Bucky again down at the parking garage, where he was standing there waiting with his own backpack and duffel bag. They weren’t bringing much, since they still didn’t have any travel plans. She figured they could always get whatever they needed, wherever they ended up going. 

The driver was an older white guy with a tidy brush mustache and salt-and-pepper hair; he was one the regular drivers who shuttled people back and forth from the compound to Manhattan, if time wasn’t a factor. He’d taken their bags from them, stowed them in the open trunk, shut it the old-fashioned way— with his hands instead of the press of a button— and then opened the rear passenger door for them. 

It all felt a little odd to her— not in a paranoid way; she had no doubt the guy was completely trustworthy— but because she wasn’t accustomed to any kind of luxury or perks or even simple courtesies like having doors held open for her. 

Bucky seemed to feel the same way, moving awkwardly and sitting stiffly on the cushy leather, his metal arm pressed into the door on the left-hand side, looking as though he didn’t know what to do with his hands once he’d buckled his seat belt. She reached over and grabbed his flesh hand and squeezed it, and then just went ahead and unbuckled, and slid over so that she was right next to him on the bench seat, molding her body into his side. His arm moved up and then settled around her, holding her to him, and he seemed to relax a fraction, though his leg was bouncing a little— one of his nervous tells. She smoothed her hand down the denim covering his thigh, and he let out a long breath and tried to still himself. 

The driver was twisted in his seat, looking back at them, waiting for an answer, and Darcy finally said, “Yup, uh huh— take us to the city.” Bucky tipped his head down and kissed her forehead, and then reached around her body for the center seat belt and pulled it across her lap, leaning sideways away from her to find the buckle between them, and then latched it in place. She relaxed back into him and his arm returned to its place, wrapped around her. 

“LaGuardia? JFK?” asked the driver. “Newark?” 

“Brooklyn,” said Bucky. 

<<>>

It was after two in the afternoon when Bucky nudged her awake, telling her they were almost there. He hadn’t recognized much of anything; he’d only been in Manhattan a few times since he’d come back— mostly in and around Stark Tower— so much of the city looked like some space-age version of reality compared to the faint and few memories he still had of the place, and he’d had little desire to explore it. 

In contrast, the massive stone towers of the Brooklyn Bridge— their destination— were exactly as he’d remembered, and it made his heart clench a little as they drove along the southeast edge of the island of Manhattan and then over the bridge itself, into the borough he’d called home in that other life. As if she could read his mind, Darcy’s little hand laced its fingers through his again, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

His stomach was growling, and he asked the driver to drop them off somewhere they could get a bite to eat before walking the bridge. 

“Shake Shack okay?” he asked, and Bucky agreed when Darcy immediately made a sound of approval. Before they got out of the car, Bucky pulled on a thin silicone sleeve— it was tinted to match his skin tone, and covered his metal limb from his fingertips up to his elbow, making it look like a more typical prosthesis. He shouldered on a thin button-down shirt, over his T-shirt, and rolled up the sleeves. 

“You’re gonna be boiling in that,” she said, but he just shrugged, and then they got out of the car. 

“Entrance to the foot-and-bike path is just a few blocks that way,” said the driver, as Darcy pulled on the mini backpack she was using as a purse. “I’ll meet up with you guys on the other side; take you wherever else you want to go.” He handed them a card with his number on it. “In case you can’t find me, or need me to pick you up somewhere else.” 

“Thanks,” said Bucky, pocketing the card, as he looked around hesitantly. A couple of people at the outdoor seating for the Shake Shack were doing a poor job of subtly scrutinizing them, to see if they were famous or something— the town car and the driver looked way too nice for a run-of-the-mill car service. Darcy would have scoffed at the thought, until it hit her, with some surprise— because the thought seemed so odd— that Bucky _was_ famous… or notorious, depending on your viewpoint. 

“Hold up,” he said, and asked the guy to pop the trunk so he could zip open his backpack; he dug out a dark blue ball cap, which he stuck on his head. 

“Thanks,” he said again, to the driver. 

“My pleasure. Take your time.” 

<<>>

She could tell he was twitchy inside the Shake Shack— the icy-cold A/C felt good, but there were too many uncontrolled variables— so she had him sit down in a booth while she ordered for them both. He sat there, leg jiggling, his head tilted down under the ball cap, while she waited for their food, only letting him out of her sight long enough to use the bathroom. Their order was up a few minutes later— she’d gotten it all to go— and he stood up as soon as she nodded to him, and held the door open for her while she carried the food in both hands. After the chill of the restaurant, the outdoor air felt like walking straight into a blast furnace. 

“You wanna eat here?” she asked, as she handed him one of the drink cups. 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, after he looked around, and saw that the people from before— the ones who’d been looking at them— were gone. He pulled out a chair for her, the metal legs scraping against the cement, as she set the bags of food down on the little round table. He sat facing the sidewalk, next to her, and they mowed quickly through the food. 

It all felt a little surreal, like they didn’t quite belong there— like they were the out-of-place elements in a _What’s Wrong with this Picture?_ activity for kids. She knew she was just being paranoid— that she just wasn’t used to being away from the compound, and certainly not with a world-famous former-assassin-turned Avenger who had somehow become her boyfriend. She had to remind herself that they weren’t any more weird or conspicuous than anyone else; New York was good for that. 

It had to be strange for him, being there, and she wondered how often he’d been back to his hometown… what was the same, what was different… but he didn’t seem to feel like talking, and they mostly ate in silence. 

“These fries are a lot better than the cafeteria’s,” he said, at one point. 

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” she said. “Just a little. You’d think for a gazillionaire, Stark would have better food served at his facilities. Why do you think I eat so many Cheetos? At least I know what I’m getting…” 

“He probably doesn’t know nothin’ about what kind of food they serve,” said Bucky, as he crumpled up the wrapper from his burger. 

“That’s no excuse,” said Darcy. “I bet it’s all the same Sysco shit that every other institution gets. He could totally do so much better.” 

“Maybe you should do something about it,” he said. 

“What, like a campaign?” she said. “Nah. I don’t have the patience for something like that. We’ll just have to make more trips to the city.” 

“Five hour drive to get fries?” he asked, teasing her, though he warmed to the fact that she’d said, ‘ _we_ ’, including him in her future plans, even if it was just a joke. 

“Sure,” she said, grinning. “S’long as I get to drool on your shoulder the whole way, like I did this time.” 

“Shoulder’s all yours, doll,” he said, and his eyes crinkled a little when she beamed at him. 

“I love that,” she said. 

“What?” 

“The way you say that: ‘ _Doll_ ’. Makes me all gooey inside, every time.” And then she took a huge, noisy slurp on her milkshake, trying to get the last of it from the bottom of the cup with her straw, and he couldn’t help laughing. 

“You ready to go?” he asked. 

“Yup. Let’s do it.” 

<<>>

It took a while to get to the actual bridge; it was a few city blocks just to reach the entrance to the pedestrian walkway— a cement path which was fenced in on both sides, sloping up, gradually lifting them above the noisy, triple lanes of vehicular traffic entering and leaving the bridge on either side of them. The path was divided in half by a solid white line, with the eastern side reserved for bicycles which zipped past, some of them ringing their little bells as they cruised by groups of pedestrians who’d paused to snap pictures. 

It was a five-minute walk up the gently inclined, cement portion of the path, with the first of the two enormous Neo-Gothic towers of the bridge straight ahead in the distance. Farther away, on the opposite bank of the East River, stretched the impressive skyline of lower Manhattan, the Freedom Tower prominent among the other skyscrapers that dominated the financial district. 

They finally came to the dusty wooden planks of the bridge proper; it looked and felt as though they were stepping onto a boardwalk. Thick metal struts— a ruddier, rusty brown— stretched away from the chest-high railing on both sides at regular intervals, like gigantic monkey-bars high above the busy lanes of traffic just below. 

It was hot— the mid-afternoon sun beating down, a gorgeous summer day— and groups of people— couples, tourists, families— clogged the walkway, pausing often to take pictures of one another or to use selfie sticks, the twin arched cutouts in the bridge’s tower making an instantly recognizable backdrop. Other people bustled by with little fanfare— some of them looking like ordinary New Yorkers just using the bridge to get from place to place— though most of the mass of people seemed to be there for the experience of the bridge itself, like Bucky and Darcy. 

He pulled her to the side at one point, out of the stream of walkers, and just stopped, leaning against the railing, and breathed out, closing his eyes. She watched him, the breeze catching the tips of his long hair where it hung loose below the ball-cap, and she listened to what he must be hearing as he just stood there for a minute— the rumble of conversations in all number of languages as people drifted by, the ring of the bicycle bells, the rhythmic _ka-chunk ka-chunk… ka-chunk ka-chunk_ of the vehicles below as they went over a seam on the roadway… 

She wondered if any of it was familiar, or if it was more like a dream you tried to recapture after waking: unsure for a moment whether it was real or imaginary, only to feel it slip through the cracks of your mind… 

She waited, patiently, her eyes leaving his face to look out across the East River toward Governor’s Island, where she could see boats chugging along in the water, leaving trails of whitecaps in their wake, while further out, a bright-orange ferry heading to Staten Island left the tip of Manhattan. Even further in the distance, almost too far and faint to identify, if she hadn’t known what it was, she could just make out the shape of the Statue of Liberty. 

Her eyes drifted down to the diagonal criss-cross of metal latticework below the railing she was leaning against, and saw a cluster of illegal ‘love locks’ attached to it, the smooth metallic sides of the padlocks marked with black, hand-written inscriptions— dates, initials, hearts. 

She looked back to his face just as he opened his eyes. “You want me to take some pictures?” she asked. 

He took in a deep breath, looked out across the water, and then back down at her face, wordlessly shook his head ‘ _no_ ’ with a little smile, grabbed her hand, and began walking again. 

They were coming up on the first of the two towers, the steel suspension cables making a beautifully geometric net-like pattern as they curved toward the sky; atop the center of the tower, an American flag waved its red-and-white stripes eastward. The walkway widened there, the east and west sides extending partially over the roadway below, and they stopped to read the various informational plaques lining the edges of the railing before continuing on, between the web-like walls of suspension cable on the other side, the second of the two towers now visible in the distance. 

Darcy didn’t usually like crowds, but something strange was happening to her as they continued to make their way amid the steady stream of people going in both directions. It was a feeling she’d experienced before, though seldom enough that it was notable whenever it happened… it was like an odd and consuming affection for humanity was rippling through her— so unlike the typical frustration or even outright disdain she sometimes had for many of her fellow human beings, especially when she spent too much time on the Internet. 

Maybe it was that almost everyone walking the bridge seemed happy, and it was hard to feel cynical in the midst of that. Maybe it was being there with Bucky: finally, the luxury of _time_ together— and not just for an hour or a day, but two entire weeks… open, stretching out ahead of them, with no particular agenda other than being together, finally… 

Maybe it was that it was just such a fantastically gorgeous day— a little on the hot side, but the gentle breeze made it feel just right, like whenever you thought _okay this is getting uncomfortable_ , the gods would wave their wands and say, _oh, here you go, this’ll help_ … 

Some kind of club jogged past in a group: a least a dozen women, all with shaved heads and matching white T-shirts— something about childhood cancer research— and Darcy smiled at them as they passed, and a lot of them noticed her and smiled back, and again, there it was: that weird wave… almost like a kind of rapture… it was like she’d taken some kind of happy pills, and she wondered if Bucky was feeling it too. 

Just past the canopy of cables for the second tower, he stopped again, pulling her with him over to the railing, and they leaned against it, sweeping their eyes over the Manhattan skyline, which felt very near now, though the coastline was still a good half-mile away. 

“It really looks different,” he said, shaking his head, and then he pointed, prompting her to follow the line of his arm. “That one,” he said, “with the green spire. I remember that one; you could see from under the bridge, from the Brooklyn side. But the rest…” He shook his head again. “Holy cow.” 

“You’re so cute,” she said, and she looped her arms through the bend of his elbow, and he looked down at her and smiled, crinkling his eyes again. 

“What’d I say about blowin’ my cover,” he teased. 

“That was about you being ‘ _sweet_ ’,” she said, grinning. 

“Uh huh,” he said. “Sweet _and_ cute. Think that’s what the Wikipedia article says about me…” 

“It should,” she said, giggling up at him, and he couldn’t help it— he pulled off his cap, and then he leaned down and kissed her, his flesh hand gently holding onto the side of her face, the breeze rippling through their hair, and it felt like a dream… standing there on the bridge with his girl, feeling the soft press of her lips moving against him, and it was like they were the only two people alive… 

When he pulled back, still smoothing his thumb against her cheek, her eyes were soft, and she said, “Thanks for sharing this with me.” 

He took a deep breath and looked out over the water again. “It was somethin’ I’d dream about doin’, when I was over in Europe. Before everything happened. I thought about what I’d do, when I got back. _If_ I got back.” 

“What else was on your list?” she asked, and when he didn’t reply immediately, she said, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me; I—” 

“Naw, it’s okay,” he said. “Was mostly boring shit… like sleepin’. Never got enough sleep, so that was probably number one on the list. Fantasize about bein’ able to sleep for a whole night, without worryin’ about somethin’ gettin’ you up… bein’ able to let down your guard for once… thing is, you find out later that you can’t really do that anyhow, even if you know you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it no more. You can’t just turn it off…” 

“Huh,” she said. “Guess it makes sense, then.” 

“What does?” 

“Being an Avenger. Doing the work you do. I mean, if you’re gonna feel like that anyway… if that’s what’s familiar… then you may as well make it mean something, right? Having to drop whatever you’re doing at the drop of a hat… having to always be ready for… well, for whatever.” 

“Yeah,” he said, and he sighed, and looked out at the water again. “Think that’s why it’s so hard when it goes wrong, like with… with that kid. Like it don’t even matter, if what we’re doin’ can’t even make a difference…” 

“But it does, most of the time,” she said, and she moved in front of him a little, between his body and the railing, and he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “What else did you think about? Besides sleeping?” 

“Oh, you know… food, mostly. Real food. And luxuries, like bein’ able to go to the pictures. Maybe see a girl. And I’d think about doin’ this: about walkin’ the bridge, lookin’ at the city, thinkin’ about all the people inside of it, all of ‘em just doin’ their thing… Just life, goin’ on, and how gorgeous that is, even if most of it ain’t all that important…” 

She let that idea sit for a minute, and then she asked, “How come you hadn’t done it? Until now? I’m mean, I’m just assuming you haven’t, by the way you’re…” 

“Guess I felt like…” He was still looking out over the water. “Maybe like I never really did. Never really came home. Like I died out there. N’someone else came back. S’not the same. So there weren’t no point to it.” 

“So what changed? What made you want to do it finally? Did you just decide ‘what the heck,’ now that you had the time?” 

She’d turned around in his arms, and was staring up him, completely open to him, wondering, waiting to hear his answer— like she didn’t even know— and he looked down at her, tried to figure out how to say it. 

“Past couple months… talkin’ to you, thinkin’ about you… the way you make me feel…” He sighed again, wishing he could say it better. “Shit, just havin’ the feelings in the first place. Wantin’ them.” 

She was still looking at him, a question in her eyes, like she still hadn’t guessed it, and his eyes were moving all over her gorgeous face, knowing now, without any doubt, that he loved this girl more than anything else in his long, fucked-up mess of a life, and that maybe it made it all worth it, if she was there, the prize at the end… 

“Feels like… I finally came home.” 

<<>>

They didn’t have any firm plans once they’d walked the bridge— they hadn’t discussed anything beyond that. Part of Bucky had the urge to just return to the familiarity of the compound— to take her back to his bed, or to hers— but Darcy suggested they spend at least one night in the city, as long as they were there, with the freedom to avoid their jobs for once. 

She didn’t have any real ideas of what to do either, but they were both wiped out from the long drive and all of the sun, and she figured they could at least rest and relax and figure out what to do next, and maybe spend some quality naked time together, though she kept that last part to herself. 

Things had felt a little different since the incident with the kid, and his shut-down in the wake of it— they’d kissed and touched, and there’d been that delectable gift with his mouth that he’d given her that morning, but the vibe between them was different… it wasn’t frantic anymore, and there was still a layer of sadness that seemed to wind its way through his expressions. 

She wondered if maybe he should have been spending this time with a therapist, rather than on some kind of makeshift vacation with her. She hoped he didn’t feel pressured into this, like it was some kind of scheme she’d cooked up with Steve. 

They asked the driver to take them somewhere nice, but with enough traffic that they wouldn’t draw attention, wouldn’t risk anyone recognizing him. 

“There’s a place— nice place— right by Stark Tower,” he told them. “Access to Grand Central; you can go anywhere. Huge. Lotsa people. No-one’ll look at you twice.” 

He’d been right— the lobby alone for the swanky hotel was the size of an airplane hangar, under two-story-high ceilings, bustling with crowds of people checking in or out. Noisy groups of tourists and conventioneers headed up the floating staircase to a 2nd-floor cocktail bar, while others took the escalators down to the 42nd-Street entrance or to the private tunnel to Grand Central Terminal. Dozens of guests loaded down with shopping or travel bags waited at the long line of elevators that served the over one thousand rooms on the property. 

In spite of the anonymity that the scale and hum of the place afforded, she could feel that Bucky was twitchy again as they stood in the line for one of the several reception desks; he kept looking around, barely hiding his nervous energy as he scanned and analyzed all the angles of the enormous space. She wondered if he was this twitchy when he traveled for work, of if it was being there with her— not on a job, no particular mission parameters— that was making it uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” she said, nodding to what looked like a mini-market to the right of the reception area. “Why don’t you go buy some water, some snacks, maybe some wine if they’ve got it, while I get us a room.” She shoved the envelope of cash into his hand. 

He glanced over to where she was indicating and then nodded, happy to have an assignment. “You want red, or white?” he asked. 

“Red,” she said. “Like a pinot. And some salty things.” He was already heading away when she called after him, “And maybe some cookies,” and he glanced back and grinned at her as he kept walking. 

Fifteen minutes later they were headed up in one of the elevators, along with their luggage and the two paper bags of supplies that Bucky had purchased. The people at the front desk had tried to get her to hand the luggage over to a bellhop, but she’d refused, knowing that Bucky would feel better if it remained under their control. 

It took her a couple of swipes with the room key over the round sensor lock, but she finally got the door open, and they pushed inside the quiet room, set the bags and key cards down, and then Darcy flopped onto the king-sized bed, face-up, staring at the ceiling, with a satisfied groan. It’d already been a wonderful day, but the heat and all of the walking had completely wiped her out, and all she wanted to do was lie down and rest for a while. 

Bucky latched and chained the door, and then he was investigating the rest of the room, which was tiny, but still luxuriously large by New York standards. He flicked the light on in the bathroom and then came back out and just stared at her, where she was lying on the bed, arms over her head, eyes now shut, as though she’d spontaneously passed out upon contact with the mattress. 

There was a desk with a little armchair in front of it, and he sat down and started to unlace his boots, and then she spoke up without moving a single cell of the rest of her body. 

“How’s the shower? Is it big enough for two? Because I totally wanna get cleaned up and wash all this scum off my skin, but I’m torn because I also wanna jump on top of you and rub my body all over you as soon as possible, so I was thinking maybe we could multitask…” 

He chuckled, even as her words sped up his heart a little, because he figured they’d both been thinking about it, but he hadn’t been sure how it was actually gonna unfold, or what she wanted him to do. Right now, she just looked like she wanted to sleep. 

“It’s pretty small,” he said. “I’ll be lucky to fit in there by myself; gonna have to duck under the shower head…” 

“Damn,” she said. “Prices like this, any other place in the country we’d have a fricking personal spa for a bathroom.” She sighed then, and said, “Well, do you wanna go first? You can go first, if you want. I’m okay with being semi-comatose here for another ten minutes.” 

“Sure,” he said. He actually hadn’t been planning on taking a shower— he just wanted to crawl into bed with her, pull her close, maybe kiss her a while, take their clothes off— but she was right: they were both sweaty, and dirty from walking the bridge, and he was probably smelling pretty ripe, and she’d probably appreciate it if he cleaned himself up before… before what? 

Everything felt different now that there wasn’t that ticking clock, that feeling of desperation driving everything forward, and he was getting nervous again, second-guessing everything, and he had to remind himself that she’d _just_ said—out loud— that she wanted to jump on him— he hadn’t made that up, hadn’t imagined it… 

He could still remember the feel of her on his tongue, the scent of her as he’d buried his face in the soft, wet core of her body, the sounds she’d made as he’d tasted her, and _Jesus_ , had that really been just this morning? 

And _fuck_ he really needed to get in the shower… the sooner he cleaned up, the sooner he could crawl into that bed with her and pick up where they’d left off, if she still wanted to… 

He’d gotten both of his boots off, and he took off the button-up shirt and then peeled away the silicone arm-cover, feeling like he could breathe again once he got it off. He didn’t have to wear it often, and it felt suffocating, even though everything it covered was as synthetic as the cover itself. He rotated his forearm and flexed his fingers a few times, and the sound of the plates whirring seemed to startle her awake… 

“Fuck— do _not_ let me fall asleep, like last time, ‘kay?” she said, from her same position flat on the bed. 

He made a huffing sound in answer, and then said, “M’not gonna wake you up, if you fall asleep, just so I can…” 

“So you can what?” she asked, finally rolling onto her side so that she could see him where he was still sitting on the chair. She was grinning at him, teasing him. “What are you _not_ gonna do to me, when you get back in here, all naked and dripping and ready, and I’m just lying here, fast asleep on the bed, possibly without any clothes on, nobody to interrupt us this time…” 

“Jesus, doll,” he said, and he was chuckling a little, but he was also imagining it… her gorgeous body, all laid out naked for him on her back… crawling his way over her, waking her up with his mouth between her legs, and he was already hard… 

“Go take your shower, before I pass out,” she said, rolling onto her back again and shutting her eyes. “I’m just gonna meditate here for a while on what you look like in there, all naked and warm, with the hot water running slowly over all of your parts…” 

He chuckled a little again and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. She was good for his ego, and there was only a little part of him that was still telling himself that she didn’t really mean it— that she was just trying to make him believe it for… for what? There was no reason for her to make it up. Unless she was just trying to make him feel better, after everything that’d happened… 

It was taking everything he’d learned in therapy to keep talking those negative, irrational voices down, those persistent _what ifs_ , and for the first time ever, he was grateful for the things his therapist had been trying to teach him— could finally see the use of it, and maybe he should work a little harder on it, now that he had a reason to… 

He pushed up and went into the bathroom and shut the door, turned on the water, shucked off the rest of his sweat-soaked clothes, and got in. 

<<>>

He almost couldn’t believe it, but she really was asleep by the time he got back in there, less than ten minutes later. It was like they were players in some kind of comedy routine, and she was delivering on the joke she’d set up earlier— only she wasn’t naked, liked she’d teased him she’d be; she hadn’t even managed to get her sneakers off. 

She was still lying flat on her back, her ankles hanging off the end of the bed, and she was breathing lightly, her mouth open, and she looked so beautiful that it hurt a little, and he just stood there and stared for a minute, naked and dripping on the carpet, just as she’d jokingly predicted, and part of him couldn’t believe she was really there with him: asleep on the bed that was _theirs_ , if for a short time— their shared space, nobody else’s, nobody there to bother them. 

A wave of longing passed over him then, wishing that they could have this back at the compound. A place he could come home to, knowing she was there… just like this, waiting for him to get back from a mission, shower off and then crawl in, gather her up into his arms… or maybe the reverse— he the one waiting for her to get home from work, to throw down her keys and pounce on him… 

He could see it in his mind, and it was like being stabbed, when he realized how much he _wanted_ that: he wanted to go there… to live in that place… and it hurt, because now that he knew it— could see it— everything was gonna seem less for not being as good as that dream, and he wondered if she would ever want something like that with him… 

She had a little package of cookies in one of her hands; she’d found them in one of the paper bags, but had fallen asleep without even opening them. He pried the crinkly package gently out of her fingers and put it on the table, and then he set about carefully unlacing her sneakers and pulling them off her feet, one by one. 

She woke up a little when he was setting the second one down on the floor, and she moaned, “ _Fuck… no_ …,” only half-conscious, and he climbed onto the bed then, pulling back the covers next to her, and then he moved her over, into the sheets, and she was mumbling again, though it was clear she wasn’t fully there… 

“ _Gotta take a shower… stinky… gotta stay awake_ …” 

“Not happening,” he said. “You’d fall over in there.” He climbed in next to her and pulled the sheet up, and she immediately tried to wrap herself around him like a drunken jellyfish, but she still had her jeans and T-shirt on, and she rolled back away from him, complaining. 

“Least help me get this stuff off,” she grumbled. “Gonna wanna shoot myself if I fall asleep in jeans…” 

So he unzipped her and pulled her pants off, threw them on the floor, and then pulled her shirt up over her head and off her arms, and it was like undressing a doll— a beautiful, living doll… 

Once she was stripped down to her bra and panties, she snuggled back into his naked body, and she was smiling, half-asleep, and mumbling to him: “ _Mmmm… you’re all warm and clean and beautiful_ ,” and she threw one of her big, shapely thighs across his legs and snuggled in closer, her head resting on his chest, right next to the seam with the metal, her arm wrapped around him, claiming him, and when she spoke again, her voice was clearer, but more vulnerable: 

“ _Don’t leave_.” 

He rested his hand on her arm, stroked it with his fingers. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he said. 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah,” he said, and his heart flooded with affection, because she sounded so earnest, even half-asleep… so desperate for that pledge that he wasn’t gonna leave again, and it made him feel so _wanted_ that it helped to burn away those lingering poisonous doubts, and he lifted her hand up to kiss it. “I promise.” 

“Kay,” she said, heaving out a big sigh, and he could barely hear the rest of it, but just before she drifted off, she said, “But you better be here when I wake up… ‘cause I got plans for you, Bucky Barnes…” 

And then she was out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I get the feeling that almost NOBODY felt like reading about a romantic walk on a bridge? 😂🤣  
> “Where’s the %#!@!*! SEX!”  
> \----------  
> Thanks everyone for reading my story. ❤️  
> \----------

He must have drifted off too, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up to Darcy Lewis moving her fingers gently along the plates of his prosthesis. She was lying on her stomach next to him, the covers pulled up to their waists, and she looked like a dream in her navy satin bra, her chestnut hair tumbling over her pale shoulders, and her eyes were all sleepy and soft, and when she saw that he was awake, she smiled. 

“Hey, you,” she said, her voice quiet, affectionate, and she pushed up on his arm a little so that she could slide beneath it and snuggle back into his body. 

“Hey.” His own voice was rumbly, and he blinked and cleared his throat and swallowed. “How long did we sleep?” 

“Not long,” she said. “Hour maybe. That sun wiped me out. I feel good now, though…” She sighed, but it sounded contented. “I think it’s finally starting to hit me that we don’t have to go to work tomorrow…” 

She was flush up against his side, an arm and a leg slung across his body, and he was waking up to it too: how she was so warm and soft and really _there_ , in his arms, and they didn’t have to go anywhere, do anything, if they didn’t want to… 

“Think I’m still in the process of believin’ it,” he admitted. “Gonna wake up in my bed back home, Steve knockin’ on my door, tellin’ me to suit up…” 

“Well, if we’re dreaming,” she said, and she slid a little more of herself onto his body, “we should make it worth it.” She kissed his jaw, and then his chin, and every time she moved, he could feel her breasts pressing into his chest. “Before we wake up…” 

She finally kissed him on the mouth, and his hands moved into her hair, smoothing along her scalp and down the curve of her neck, shifting his body beneath her a little, his cock already stirring to life... 

She pulled away from his mouth and slid down a little as he watched her, his eyelids heavy, breath already picking up, knowing that whatever she was gonna do, he was gonna like it… 

She kissed one of his nipples, and then she was grinning as she licked and sucked at it, enjoying the way his breath hitched in surprise from the sensation...

His hand moved down to caress the soft skin of her back, and he wanted to get that bra off, just feel her skin with nothing in the way, and he found the clasp, with its little hooks and eyes, using both his hands to work it, and it popped open, and he sighed a little when his flesh hand returned to the smooth, uninterrupted softness of her body... 

Her own hand was drifting down, beneath the sheets, and she wrapped it around his rapidly-hardening dick, pulling up on the silky skin of his shaft a couple times, and his hips pulsed up automatically, seeking the friction of her touch... 

“I should really take a shower,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t think I can leave you here… now that I’ve got you right where I want you…” 

“Oh yeah?” he said, failing to sound casual, and then he shut his eyes as she pushed the sheet aside completely, his breathing getting louder as she stroked him fully, and in no time at all she had him worked up and ready, hard and leaking, the tip of him pushing out of the foreskin on its own, and she moved her thumb gently over the top, coating him in his own slick… 

“Fuck,” she said, staring at the red, glistening end of his dick, “You better get inside me soon, or I’m gonna have to do something about this myself…” 

He opened his eyes, threaded a finger under one of the loose bra straps, pulling it down her shoulder. “Take this off.” 

She grinned and let go of him, pulled it off the rest of the way and flung it aside, and then she was reaching for her panties, but he said, “Let me,” and he rolled them so that he was hovering over her, kissing his way down her body, his hands on her waist, pausing halfway down to kiss her breasts, loving the way the big pink circles pebbled up when he licked them… 

He kissed her once on her belly, and then he hooked his fingers under the thin little strips of fabric that made up the sides of her panties, and tugged them down, past her wide hips and down around her thighs, and she pulled her knees up, helping him, until he got them all the way off at the end of her feet, and she let her legs fall open so he could see her… 

He stared for a moment, swallowing, because she was already glistening and wet, pink and pretty and ready for him, and when he crawled back between her legs, he could feel his cock leading the way, like it had a mind of its own, knowing where it wanted to be, but he wanted to touch her first, taste her again… 

He slid his thumb down along her slick center, and then slipped two of his fingers inside, watching her face, her plump red lips as her mouth fell open, and he pulsed up into her, slowly, palm up, his thumb moving in circles on the outside, and she was so wet he could hear it, and she was moving her hips, circling her ass against the sheets as she moaned, fully engaged in her own desire… 

He dipped his head down to taste her, swiping his tongue up to the hood of her clit, exhaling with the pleasure of her taste, and then he sucked on her, his fingers still moving inside, and she cried out a little, almost like she was gonna come already, just from that, and he wanted to settle in, to make her come with his mouth, but she stopped him, gasping a little. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she was saying, panting it out… “Need you in me… wanna feel you… can’t wait any more…” 

He lifted up, sliding his fingers back out, and she was reaching for him, trying to find something to grab onto— a shoulder, or an arm, or even his cock— some way to pull him into her, a little desperate, and he leaned back over her, bracing himself above her, his metal hand pressing into the mattress as he reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, bringing it to her body, and he was right there, ready to slide in, her hips still rocking, wanting him, calling to him to get inside… 

But he wasn’t… 

And she opened her eyes, looked up at him, and he was just holding there, paused, his eyes closed as he hovered over her, his hand still gripping the base of his cock, and she couldn’t tell if he was nervous, or lost, or something else… 

“You okay?” she said. “Bucky? You with me?” 

“Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. 

“It’s just me,” she said. “Me and you…” 

“I know,” he said, and he repeated it. “I know.” And then he opened his eyes and looked at her, saw the concern in her eyes, and _fuck_ he was wrecking it, spoiling it for her, and he let go of his dick, turning his head to the side, unable to look at her, when her face was like that… 

“Bucky… we don’t have to—” 

“Sweetheart, no,” he interrupted her. He deflated a little, resting back on his heels. “No— I want to— God, I fuckin’ want nothin’ more than— I’m just… I’m worried it’s not gonna… that I’m gonna let you down.” He let out a frustrated breath. “Got a feelin’ it ain’t gonna last very long…” 

“Bucky…” she said, and she wished she could just magic all that worry away, wished he knew how good it felt, just being there with him; that _yes_ , she wanted him— wanted him _badly_ — but that she wasn’t expecting any kind of performance, wasn’t going down a list of criteria, judging him… 

“This is not a one-time deal,” she finally said, “So you can stop putting all that pressure on yourself.” She sat up a little, put her hand on his face, stroking it until he opened his eyes, looked at her again, and she moved in closer so that she could kiss him, tenderly. “We’ve got all night… and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…” 

“I’m not gonna be disappointed,” she said. “ _Promise_. I just want to feel you. Even if it lasts three seconds, it’s gonna be an amazing three seconds, and then when you’re ready we’ll go again. Okay?” 

And then she crawled into his lap, her bent legs bracketing him, and she reached up to kiss him, bringing him back to the solid comfort of her body, and as she felt him relax again, her hands smoothed along his thighs, and she rocked against him a little. 

“You want me?” she whispered. She was speaking into his mouth, in between kissing him, caressing him inside with her tongue. 

“Yeah,” he said, his breath coming heavy. “So fuckin’ much… I want you… ” 

“I just wanna feel you,” she said. “Let me feel you…” 

They were still kissing, their tongues tangling together, as her hand reached down and found him, still hard and leaking, and she lifted herself a little, angling him toward her body, rubbing the head of his cock against her wet folds, and then she moved herself against him, just a little, and she was so slippery that the tip of him slid right in, and she was rocking into him, trying to maneuver, to take more of him in...

And he finally broke the kiss, breathing out sharply, and he pulled the tip of himself back out of her, and she faltered for a second, afraid he was calling it off, but then all at once he was crawling over her, invading her space until she fell back onto the bed, her breasts bouncing as she landed, and he braced himself over her, his metal hand pushing down into the mattress by her shoulder, while the flesh one ran down the front of her body, between her breasts, down to her pubic hair, and then along the creamy skin of her thigh… 

He cupped his hand into the back of her knee, pushing her leg up, spreading her out, and she was still rocking her hips, like she was saying, “ _Come on_ ,” and she moved her own hand to the back of her thigh, holding herself open like he wanted, so he could let go and grab onto his cock again, and he lined himself up, and she was so wet, so open, that it only took one roll of his hips to push most of the way in, his head dropping, exhaling through the rush of it as he slid himself into her sweet, suffocating heat, and he whimpered as every nerve ending in his dick lit up, and he actually lost sense of where he was for just a second… 

He came back to himself, breathed and pulled out a little, and she was watching him, gazing at him beneath heavy lids, hazy and full of want, her face telling him ‘ _yes_ ,’ and he pushed back in, her whole body moving with his thrust, like a slow-motion wave, and he stayed there longer this time, feeling her adjust to the stretch, soft and warm and sinking into him everywhere as her body relaxed around him… 

“ _God, yes_ ,” she said, and her eyes fell shut as she sighed and moaned like it was a relief, like she’d been waiting forever for this— waiting for him to fill up that space… 

And then with one more gentle back and forth he was all the way in, his body flush against her, and he rocked his hips once, pressing her into the bed, his balls brushing against her ass, and he almost couldn’t breathe… 

He’d moved both his hands back to the bed, bracing himself above her, and she’d let go of her leg, wrapping all of her limbs around him, pulling him close as she enveloped him within, and they were barely even moving, other than the gentle circling of her hips, but she was whispering, almost moaning out the words, “ _God… Bucky… you feel so good… you feel so good_ …” 

He was trying to speak, to tell her that she felt better— that there was no way anything could feel as good as being wrapped up in the pressure of her wet heat— but he couldn’t make the words come… he was drowning in it, trying to hang on… trying not to fall… 

He wanted to move, wanted to feel the drag of his body inside her, but he was afraid to— afraid if he even breathed the wrong way that he’d explode, lose it before they could even begin, and his breath shuddered a little, and then she clasped around him inside, like a warm glove all around him, squeezing him, and it made him shiver, and find his voice… 

“Fuck,” he breathed… “I can feel you… can feel you doin’ that… _fuck_ … sweetheart…” 

And he risked it… pulled back just a few inches, and then pushed back in all the way, rolling in another slow wave against her body at the end, and then she did it again— gripping him inside, tilting her hips up to meet him as he bottomed out— and he held his breath, his fist tightening in the sheets next to her body… “I can’t,” he said… “I can’t…” 

And it was so unlike those other times— those other women who’d let him do this, so long ago… who’d let him get this close… and that was it, really; that word: they’d _let_ him… like there’d been something in his nature— in being a man— that’d made it like something they thought he’d needed, maybe more than them… like they’d been helping him out, doing him a favor…

This wasn’t like that at all… 

They were locked together, barely moving, but it was like he could feel everything— like everything was alive, every cell in play… something they were sharing— equally, together— and it was so _fucking_ good, and he was trembling, still trying to hang on… 

“ _Bucky_ ,” she whispered… 

And he could feel her legs pulling against him, keeping him deep inside as she circled her own body up against his, clasping around him inside, and it took all his willpower to keep from moving, his eyes still shut, shivers running down his spine, thinking, _please_ … 

“ _It’s okay_ ,” she was saying… “ _Let go. Let go. I want to feel it. Bucky, let go_.” 

And he wanted so badly for it to be good for her, but he knew it couldn’t last, and he reached down, trying to find her, right where they were connected, and he found that silky little curtain, right above where his own body was stretching her open, all of her warm and wet, and he stroked her with his thumb, made her shiver and move against him, quivering around him, and he moved up against her on the bed, trying to get closer, and he could feel the tip of his cock brushing up against the end of her inside, and his balls were tightening, and he wasn’t gonna make it… 

He opened his eyes and she was watching him… he could see little tracks of tears falling down the sides of her face, away from her eyes, and he was almost shaking, and it was the most vulnerable thing he’d ever felt that was actually _good_ … fighting the instinct to close his eyes again, to flinch from the rawness of it, and they were just staring at each other, breathing together as she gripped him inside, and he gasped it out: “I wanna see you. Wanna see you come…” 

Her jaw was loose, her eyelids heavy, but she never stopped looking at him, her hips canting against him, her breath picking up, and he dropped down a little more, bracing himself with his metal forearm so he could get even closer, and he rocked into her again, pressing his hips just enough to grind up against her, insistent, possessing her, never letting up with his thumb even as the rest of him was fully seated inside of her, his balls right up against her, and he could feel her starting to shiver around him inside, like ragged little tremors, and she let out a sound, a little moan in the back of her throat, her face tightening into a grimace, almost like it hurt, and then her eyes finally fluttered shut as her jaw fell open, and her chest caved in even as her hips arched upward, everything tightening around him all at once, pulling on him inside as she cried out, gripping him in a violent shudder, and he watched her as long as he could until he surrendered to it as well… 

He managed to move just one more time— just one long, delicious drag out and then back in, clenching his ass as he rolled his hips, pressing himself in as far as he could go, his hand moving to clutch at her hip, curling into her flesh, his breath quickening until he held it, and then he finally let go with an aching moan, spilling into her as he shuddered against her... 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered, after a few seconds, and he felt dizzy, spots dancing in his eyes, his face collapsing into her shoulder, and he stayed there a while, trying to get his breath back, and he could feel her hands stroking his sweaty back, taking care of him, and when he finally lifted his face up to look at her, her eyes were still shut, but she had a beatific smile on her face, her hair all spread out like an angel, just a few sweaty strands sticking to her flushed face… 

He wanted to stay there, her legs wrapped around him, her arms holding him like he belonged there… safe and sated, enfolded in her, and for a second he felt so completely happy that it should have been terrifying, but all he could think was, _this is it… this is where I wanna be_ … 

She was still smiling, her eyes still shut, and she was whispering something, like, “ _Knew it… knew it was gonna be amazing_ ,” and he felt her squeeze him again, gently, where he was starting to soften inside… 

He was smoothing her hair back from her face, wiping it free of those few sweaty strands, leaning down to kiss her, and it felt different now… like an affirmation of everything he’d said with his body, and he wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t say anything at all… 

And then he was slipping out of her, and he wanted to collapse right there, needing to release all the remaining tension in his limbs, but he didn’t want to crush her, so he rolled onto his back, boneless, and she followed, snuggling sideways into him with a contented sigh as his arm wrapped around her. 

It was quiet for a minute, the only sound their ragged, uneven breathing as they both came down from it, her palm on his chest, her thumb making tiny back-and-forth motions on it, and then she finally broke the silence, her voice soft but happy: 

“I just gotta warn you,” she said, “I’m not leaving this bed until we’ve done it, like, at _least_ three more times. Because that was fucking awesome, and I want more. As soon as possible.” 

He wanted to say, ‘ _Fine by me_ ,’ but he still couldn’t speak. And he knew he had to look like the biggest dope on the planet, all speechless and glassy-eyed— fuck-drunk and smiling, even though the whole thing had only lasted a few minutes— but he didn’t give a shit how stupid he looked, because all he could think about was how goddamned happy he felt… 

“Do you know if…” she was saying, “Does the serum make it— you know… faster?” 

“Don’t know,” he said, finally finding some words, and he swallowed and exhaled roughly again. “Maybe. Sure seems like it, from the amount of time I been walking around with tight pants lately.” And then he smiled bigger and said, “But maybe that’s on account of the person I got on my mind…” 

“You mean Steve?” she said, with a totally straight voice, and then they both snickered, her face jiggling on his chest as he laughed along with her. 

“God, that fuckin’…” 

“Cock-block,” she said, giggling more, and then she sighed and said, “God, I literally thought I was gonna die this morning, when he stopped us…” 

“Yeah, well… there’ll be plenty more of that in your future,” he said wryly. “The, uh, I mean what I was doin’, not the havin’ to stop.” And then he added, a little uncertainly, “I mean, if you…” 

“Fuck, do you even have to ask?” she said, and her fingers curled a little, scraping against his chest like a claw. “Your mouth is like a fucking National Treasure…” 

He smiled, feeling a flicker of his old self, maybe a little cocky, letting himself enjoy the compliment, but mostly he was just glad they were both on the same page about that particular activity… 

“So you seriously don’t know?” she asked. “How long it’ll be ’til, you know…” 

“Well, I haven’t… I mean I haven’t really had the cause to test it out… not like…” 

“Really?” she asked. “But I thought you said…” 

“Said I wasn’t a virgin,” he said. “Don’t mean I’ve done it since… well, I hadn’t done it since I got… changed…” 

“Really?” she said again, this time more incredulously. 

“You makin’ fun of me?” he said, but his voice was teasing. He rolled onto his side a little, so he could see her better, his eyes dropping to where her breasts pressed against him, and he rolled them both a little more, to give himself access, his flesh hand reaching out to trace around one of her nipples with his thumb. 

“Nope,” she said. “If anything…” 

He paused to stick his thumb in his mouth to wet it, and then he returned it to her nipple, moving more slowly now, circling… 

“If anything, what?” he asked, watching her nipple change as he played with it, and then he slid down and replaced his thumb with his mouth, swirling slowly around her, and then sucking on her until he could hear her breathing change, and when he pulled back it was red and hard and he was about to put his mouth back on it, but she slid down onto her tummy, hiding her expression in the sheets for a second, and he used the opportunity to smooth his hand over her gorgeous, round ass... he couldn’t keep his hands off her— wanted to flip her over, bury his face between her legs again... 

She almost looked shy when she finally lifted up her face to answer him. “I mean, I know it shouldn’t, but… I’m gonna be totally honest— it’s kinda turning me on…” 

“What, that I ain’t seen any action in seventy years?” He was still smiling, still teasing her. “Listenin’ to Steve talk, I got the impression it was just sorta… sad.” 

“Not like _that_ , not exactly,” she said. “It’s more like… I dunno… if I’m the only girl you’ve been with… like, in the entire _century_ …” 

She pushed him back then, so that he was stretched out again, and she crawled up on top of him, swinging her leg over to straddle him. She let her ass settle on his thighs, right behind his dick, where it was resting against his abdomen, recovering, and she was already dying to touch it again, to take it in her mouth, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him… 

“It’s making me feel all… possessive,” she said. “Like, in this super beasty, growly way.” She had her palms on his chest, and she leaned forward to kiss him, right in the cleft of his chin. “Like, no-one else gets to have you,” she said. “Like you’re all mine.” 

_God, this girl_ … and he could feel his dick waking up again…

“Doll, I been all yours since the first time you smiled at me.” 

When she went in for another kiss, on his mouth this time, his hand came up to hold her there, deepening it with his tongue, and when they finally broke apart, she lifted up a little, glancing down between them and then back to him with a grin. 

“Well would you look at that. Guess it doesn’t take much time at all…” 

<<>>

The second time, he lasted long enough to make it feel like three-times-in-one, starting right where she already was, on top of him. 

Once he was ready to go, she slid herself down around him, and then rode him with a relentless but delicious torture of slow, circling hips and warm caresses, squeezing him as she moved up and down and all around, and she was well on her way to killing him, until finally he growled and flipped them over and he got his revenge, thrusting into her with the enthusiasm he’d longed to unleash the first time around… 

And finally, after some maneuvering, he found himself embracing her from behind, spooning himself around her, dragging his cock in and out of her body in an agonizing crawl as his fingers played her slowly, taking his time, her upper leg slung back over his thick thigh, and they were both moaning it out on each breathy exhale, building in a crescendo, climbing it together, until she finally clamped down around him with an elated, shivering moan, and he followed shortly after… letting her come down first, and then finishing himself off with just three more strokes into her still-quivering body, and then for five minutes they just lay there, stunned and spent and dripping with sweat, and when she finally managed to speak, all she could say was, “ _Holy fuck_ …” 

They didn’t make it to the third round, as she’d mandated, without taking a break first, but when they got around to it, it was different yet again— this time something feral uncoiling inside of him, and she encouraged it, coaxing it out of him, telling him to go _harder_ and _faster_ and he obeyed, and it was like a tension he’d been carrying around with him all this time— maybe ever since he was losing his grip on that freight car… like he’d still been bracing for that impact, for seventy years— finally loosened and let go, and he didn’t even realize he was crying until the tears were dripping off his face to land on her neck, her chest, and he came hard, not even knowing if she’d come or not, and he’d collapsed almost on top of her, and he could hear her, whispering his name… 

<<>>

They finally stopped fucking after the fourth time— Darcy admitting that she was starting to get too sore, and Bucky conceding that he needed some real food, his noisy stomach having become so insistent and angry that it was making both of them laugh, wrecking the mood, and he’d actually thrown on his clothes and ventured out into the real world while she took a shower, and she’d proclaimed him her ‘ _motherfucking hero_ ,’ when he returned bearing a double stack of gigantic cardboard pizza boxes and a six-pack of beer. 

“What do you wanna do next?” she asked, around a big bite of folded, floppy, New-York-style pizza. She’d already judged it the best she’d ever tasted, but maybe that was just the afterglow talking… 

“Don’t care,” he said, talking around his own mouthful. “S’long as it’s with you.” 

“I mean, do you wanna go somewhere else? We could still get on a plane, go wherever. You sure there’s nowhere you wanna go?” 

He paused to crack open another can of beer, and took a sip of it before he answered. “I travel enough for work. Don’t really appeal to me, to be honest. But I’m game to go wherever, if you got somewhere you wanna go.” 

“We don’t have to decide today,” she said. “We’ve got two whole weeks, and we’ve only used up one day so far. Just let me know if you think of anything, okay? ‘Cause I’ll do whatever. Even if it’s just to stay here and eat food and screw.” 

That got a reaction out of him, and he finished his slice, licked the sauce off his fingers, and crawled his way over her body, making her shriek and giggle and drop her own half-eaten slice before he captured her lips in a sloppy kiss that was spilling over with smiles from both of them… 

<<>>

The next day they didn’t go out at all. They spent the entire day wrapped up in the bedsheets, and the warmth of each other’s arms, watching shitty movies on the satellite TV, learning new ways to make each other moan, and ordering room service whenever they got hungry. 

In the late afternoon, as they lay side-by-side, propped up against the pillows, still covered in a sheen of sweat, they watched in a sort of fuck-daze as some beefcake guy in some unknown movie crashed slow-motion through a high-rise window on a motorcycle, and Bucky said, “This is the best time I’ve ever had.” 

“Agreed,” she said, without turning her head. “I think we should make this our new career path.” There was a pause, and then they both erupted into laughter. 

<<>>

Every single day, she asked him where he wanted to go, and he always had the same answer: that nothing was gonna make him happier than staying right there with her— nothing to worry about, no plans to make, no schedules to keep… and they’d re-book the room for another night, and continue on as before. 

They did get out into the city a few times; she even convinced him to go see a movie with her when they screened _Singin’ in the Rain_ at Bryant Park— he figured he could handle it, since it was outdoors, although the unexpected mad dash to nab a spot, once the staff opened the gates, was a little stressful. But once they’d staked their claim with their blanket and stretched out their legs and relaxed, it was nothing short of magical. It was a gorgeous evening, they had a gluttonous spread of food and wine, and once the sun went down, Darcy lay back in Bucky’s arms, and together, they watched Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor singing and dancing their hearts out. 

It wasn’t something he’d have chosen to do— wouldn’t have imagined he could even enjoy it, but he was wrong. Once he’d gotten adjusted to the environment— the parameters of the space and the lay of the crowd— and the movie had started up, he’d found himself sucked into it in spite of himself, able to actually relax and smile and get invested in the story up on the screen. The people in the film weren’t quite from the same era he’d left behind, but it was close enough to unlock some deep sense of familiarity that wrapped its way around him, like a comfort he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing… 

He also realized, with a bit of a lurch, as he reclined there on the grass with his girl, theirs just one of hundreds of blankets laid out in the park, that it was the most normal he’d felt in over seventy years: the most he’d felt he was actually part of some human community— that the ability hadn’t been totally lost to him, as he’d believed… 

He’d looked around, had seen them all: humans, happy to be alive— and realized, with some surprise, that even though he was a one-hundred-year-old veteran, a former prisoner-of-war, a recovering assassin, and a lot of other things that none of these people were or could ever relate to, he was also, nevertheless, a member of that same group: human. Happy to be alive. 

She sat up at one point, to pour them some more wine, and when he looked over to her in the not-quite-dark of the crowded park, and he could see her face in profile, her eyes all lit up, laughing at some joke, he almost said it— almost told her he loved her— but then a bigger wave of laughter erupted through the crowd, and the moment was broken, and he swallowed it down, saving it for later. 

“So’d you like it?” she’d asked him, as they’d packed their garbage into the shopping bag and rolled up the blanket. 

And he had— Bucky’d loved it, even though he had to put up with Darcy singing a terrible rendition of “Good Morning” for the next three mornings at the hotel… 

“ _Good mornin’… good mornin’… It’s great to stay up late… Good mornin’, good mornin’ to you_ ….” 

<<>>

There was one afternoon that he got a little dark. They were in Central Park, looking at all the red-eared sliders at the Turtle Pond, after Bucky had scared away the fake Buddhist monks who’d approached them hoping for a handout. 

It’d started out light enough, with their trading of jokes about the different levels of moss-like algae many of the turtles seemed to be carrying about on their shells. 

“Do you think they’re even aware of it?” mused Darcy, “Or do you think it just gradually builds up, until one day your turtle buddy is like, ‘ _Holy shit, Arnold, you have a fucking topiary on your back!_ ” 

And then Bucky had gone quiet for a while, and when he finally spoke, it wasn’t about turtles. 

“I can remember thinkin’, ‘ _I’m still me_ ’… but by the time I was actually thinkin’ that— havin’ to say it in those words— I wasn’t. I wasn’t really me anymore.” 

Darcy was almost holding her breath, just listening, as she stared out into the murky water of the pond, feeling the sun burn a red pattern onto the slopes of her shoulders, her exposed bra-straps like reverse-stencils, protecting only those narrow strips of skin… 

“The last time I think I still knew my name— I mean the last time, before Steve said it to me, all those years later— the last time I guess I knew it for sure… I was already doin’ stuff. Already killin’ people.” 

He let out a breath and admitted it. “There was some… overlap there. That’s the stuff that keeps me up at night. When I still knew who I was, but I didn’t know… didn’t know _what_ I was… not anymore.” 

She knew he didn’t want her to console him, or even necessarily say anything at all, so she just looped her arm through his and leaned into his shoulder, and they just sat there and watched the turtles float on the water, their little heads popping up every now and then, front feet paddling to the surface, and then they’d drop back below, back into the relative chill of the water, once again disappearing from view… 

<<>>

It’d been a week already, and she was still asking him if he wanted to go anywhere else— not pressing him, not really wanting to go anywhere else herself, but just reminding him that the option was there— still plenty of time— until finally, as they lay naked on the bed, and she was drawing little patterns in the dark patch of his chest hair with her finger, he abruptly said, “I know where I wanna go.” 

“Really?” she said, without lifting her head. She was frankly surprised; she hadn’t been expecting it. “Where?” 

“Home,” he said. “With you.” And then he mustered his courage and let her know. “I mean, even though we can’t be together all the time there, like we been here… as long as I know you’re there waitin’ for me, or I’m there and you’re the one comin’ home…” He let out a long breath. “That’s where I wanna be. That’s where I wanna go.” 

And she lifted her head up a little and when he looked over at her, he was surprised to see that she looked a little scared. 

“Are you saying…” She paused, like she was afraid to say it. “Bucky, are you asking me to _marry_ you?” 

“No,” he said, his face softening, as his hand came up to move a lock of hair out of her face. “M’askin’ you to be my girl.” 

She smiled then, relaxing, and said, “I thought I already was.” 

“I was thinkin’ about what you said… back at my place, when you stayed over and I… when I had that problem, after the thing with the kid… and I thought, I mean I _knew_ that was it— that it was over, and I was waitin’ for you to leave, was makin’ myself accept it. Only you didn’t. And I didn’t know why. But I wanted to be worth it for you… for your… for stayin’.” 

And she opened her mouth to interrupt him, but he kept talking, needing to say his piece. “And you said that thing about how we’d figure it out… so’s I’d know you’d be safe. And I didn’t know if I could do that. Didn’t know if I could be okay with that. But I wanna try. And I thought maybe… maybe if you wanna try and figure it out, and we work on it a little, then… well, maybe we could try livin’ together.” 

And he rushed on then, having already said the scariest part of it. “God knows, I owe Stevie everything, but I’d sure as hell rather wake up to your face every morning instead of his ugly mug…. not that I’m, you know, wakin’ up to him or…” He chuckled a little, nervously. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sayin’ this all wrong.” 

And she was tearing up a little, but he hadn’t noticed it yet, because he was still talking, still trying to sell it to her: 

“We could put in for a double, like what me and Stevie have now. The doubles got the bigger kitchens, and a bigger bathroom, and we could turn the extra bedroom into a pretty decent office for you, and—” 

And she finally shut him up by sliding over on top of him and kissing the daylights out of him, and she only stopped when she could feel his mouth transform from surprise into a smile under her lips, and when she pulled back he said, almost hesitantly, “Is that a yes?” 

And she kissed him again, this time more tenderly, and she could feel his hands caressing her back, holding her to him, and when she stopped, she only pulled away far enough to speak, her eyes moving back and forth between his. 

“Of course it’s a ‘yes’, you dork. I _love_ you. Of course I want to live with you.” 

And it was like he’d been conked over the head for a moment— his face frozen, uncertain— and then everything relaxed a little and his voice was so soft— almost shy, like yet another entry for that fake ‘ _Winter Soldier_ ’ wiki, along with ‘ _sweet_ ’ and ‘ _cute_ ’… 

“You love me?” 

“Yeah,” she said, no teasing in her voice now, her eyes still following his, her hand stroking the side of his face, the wiry hairs of his beard. “I do.” 

Darcy didn’t do serious, but there was nothing but the force of truth, sincerity in her voice as she looked at him, holding his eyes, making him believe it. “I love you.” She kissed him and breathed and said it again: “ _I love you_.” 

And he rolled her over then, as all his nerves— all his fears— melted away, and he surrendered to it, putting all of his feelings into the kiss, trying to return it, needing her to know, but when he pulled back, stroking her face tenderly, he could see the question there in her eyes, even though she was trying to hide it, trying not to pressure him, but wondering it nevertheless— wondering if he was gonna say it back… 

He knew he loved her— had known it for a while— and he wanted to tell her, needed her to know how important she was to him… but when he imagined his own voice saying it, heard it in his head, it sounded like something on a greeting card— trite, like it didn’t have the whole story, with all of its history. The full depth of it, the long journey through decades that he’d walked to find himself right here, loved by her and able to love her back… 

He could already tell she wasn’t expecting any words from him— feeling everything he’d needed to say in that kiss, and in his eyes as he’d gazed at her— and she was smiling up at him as he fit himself in between her hips and she moved her own hand down to stroke herself open, and then guide him into her body, and he rocked into her— once, twice— never taking his eyes off of her, and on the third stroke he stopped— held there on an exhale, pushed all the way up inside, his hand on her face, that gorgeous face, the girl he loved— and he said the truest words that’d ever passed his lips: 

“Doll, you bring the fuckin’ sun.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [“Good Morning”- _Singing in the Rain_ (1952)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GB2yiIoEtXw)


End file.
